


On Ice

by ElfyDwarf



Series: The Sporting Section [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Boys In Love, Dry Humping, Figure Skating - Ian, Ice Hockey - Mickey, Implied Sexuality, Kissing, Language, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of harmful situations, Mentions of mental and physical abuse, Mild depressive episodes, Olympics AU, Panic attacks - mild, Rimming, Sexual Humor, Sexual Situations, Sexual Tension, Sexual decriptions, Slow Burn, Soft Boys, Threats of Violence, Violence - Hockey, Winter Olympics, face fucking, mentions of anxiety and depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 228,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfyDwarf/pseuds/ElfyDwarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Olympics 2018 is something Mickey would have never believed possible to compete in, but here he is, doing what he does best - hashing it out on the ice. Whilst Ice Hockey is his center focus, the one thing he can find any freeing enjoyment in, a certain figure skater with flame-red hair changes that in fiery flash when Mickey catches his eye. </p><p>The Winter Olympic AU that's probably been done before (Complete)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shut The Fuck Up, Louie!

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck by the idea while staring at Ian's naked glory, because damn, he could be a figure skater, amirite? Anyway, Mickey strikes me as a bullheaded Hockey player, Ian as a powerful and yet mesmerizing skater, so... Bang, here it is. Probably been done before? Most likely. Being done again? Of course. I researched for this, so apart from what i learnt about the 2018 games, anything out of that is made up completely cos i can't see into the future - enjoy! 
> 
> Mistakes are my own, no money made, no insult intended, work of fiction, total AU. Ian has no BiPolar, and Mickey isn't overly cautious where being gay is concerned and you'll see why.

 

“ _Welcome to the 2018 Winter Olympics here, in Pyeongchang, South Korea! We hope that you have a pleasant and fulfilling time whilst you are here competing._

 _Please take full advantage of our Olympic Village and facilities here at the Alpensia Resort in the Pyeongchang Mountains, and to those who are not competing within the resort on the slopes, arrangements for your travel to your appropriate event locations have been all accounted for and you will find a schedule within this welcome pack._  

 _If you wish to travel in your leisure time, please do not hesitate to contact an assistant and they will make the necessary arrangements for you. Please do not leave the resort by yourself as it is easy to become lost within a country you do not know._  

_On behalf of South Korea – Good Luck! Passion. Connected.”_

 

“What a load of cheese, huh?” Mickey sniffed, waving the embossed paper in the air with a grimace at the flouncy way in which it wafted, as though made from tissue paper and not card. 

“Shut up Mickey, I think it's nice,” Louie chuckled, glancing at it as Mickey placed the card down on the coffee table with a peculiar grimace. Louie nudged his shoulder, “The OC tomorrow is gonna be pretty fucking _sweet_ bro.” 

“You think walking around wavin' and being all cheerful while some nut off the team is hauling the flag around is sweet?” Mickey grouched, rubbing his nose a little, “Nah, not my cup of tea. Would rather watch it on TV man, drinking and fucking _relaxing_ before we gotta go into battle.” 

“Speaking of, what's it say about the ice?” Louie asked, leaning back against the plush sofa and looking around the vast foyer they were sitting in. He waved as a group of fellow countrymen wandered past towards a massive set of doors. They inclined their heads, noticing the similar uniform, but said nothing. Mickey leant forward and took out another card from within the welcome pack and scowled at it while Louie frowned and pursed his mouth at the retreating backs of his team. _Skiers_. He flipped them the bird for good measure, smiling brightly in case one of them happened to turn around and see.

“We're staying up here, but-” Mickey shifted forward and held the card up close, squinting ridiculously for a second before flicking it and frowning so hard the pinch between his eyebrows went white. “What the _fuck_? Whoa, our arenas are on the fucking coast bro, Gangneung Hockey Centre, in Gangneung and that's like, two and half fucking hours in a shuttle bus-” 

“We got the super speed rail line dude, won't take that long,” Louie smiled, trying to sooth Mickey before he tore the card to bits with frustration he need not be feeling. Mickey rubbed his face while Louie ticked his head and looked thoughtful, “So it's like, near Seoul?” 

“According to this it's close, yeah. Anyone competing on ice will be down there, so, kind of begs the question, why put us all up in the fucking mountains if half of us are travelling down there?” Mickey spat, hitting the card with the back of his hand just because, and then stuffed it back in the stylish packet before folding his arms and throwing himself backwards into the consuming cushions with his customary scowl. Louie found him amusing and nudged Mickey's bouncing knee with his foot. 

“It's good to keep the teams together dude, you know, promote bonding and all that shit, it's nice. Just 'cause you're so stiff doesn't mean every fucker on the planet is too, well, except the skiers. Enjoy yourself man, yeah, we're competing with the big boys, but it don't mean you gotta act like you've got the coach's fist up your ass all the time,” he teased but Mickey didn't shift himself or the face he had, so Louie tapped his chest with his hand and stood up. “Come on, s'go find the guys and see what we're doing and where we're going and see if we can't get one of your sneaky smokes in, give you a nicotine hit before you hit something.” 

“I ain't riled up man,” Mickey protested, hauling his duffel bag off the floor and pulling the handle out of his pull-along with venom, yanking it alongside Louie's as they left the sofa ridden area of the foyer. 

Louie barked a laugh and ducked his head, “Fuck you, you ain't riled up, you're buzzing! Flight got you all jumpy and shit and 'cause we were behind schedule, no smoke break. You know, being here and all that, means we can't be slackin' and we gotta stick to his routines. And _you_ , you're the worst for stressin' out, Nicholls nearly lost his fuckin' nose man.” 

Mickey stopped and raised his eyebrows to his hairline, silencing Louie with a sharp look, “Hey, he shouldn't have been spewin' about planes and crashes at fuck o'clock in the morning when I was only allowed one cigarette and half a fucking coffee. He's lucky I punched him once.” 

“Exactly my point, you're wound tighter than the wire-tie Coach put on the sandwiches baggies. You either gotta get laid real good or we go get you a sneaky pack of smokes and hide out on the slopes for a few hours while we can. We got a free night tonight so like fuck am I stayin' in my room.” 

They started walking again, heading for the great set of doors every other athlete was beelining for. Mickey frowned and side-eyed his friend, “We got a free night? Coach told me we got a fuckin' sit down thing with the 'top dogs' of each division.” 

“Huh, nah man, not what he told us. Mind you, you are like, Senlintsky's right hand man so, you gotta go to it because of that, maybe? I don't fuckin' know dude. Told you, your opinions would get you noticed and Cap really does listen to your whiny fuckin' spiels-” 

“Hey! Fuck you, asshole!” Mickey huffed, no heat, but still he refused to smile. 

“I feel for you though bro, bum deal, but hey, nice food right?” Louie never ceased to make Mickey's mood lift, always thinking of the good in every situation, and to keep face, Mickey had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile from breaking out. 

“Yeah, great,” he drawled, “Means I gotta do that sit down and shut up shit with the other mouths of the ice section of our team. Fuck, the curlers man, they just … they drain my life bar to absolute fucking zero. I can't even feel angry enough to smack the suckers for yabberin' at me. They're just fucking exhausting, you know?” 

“Ha! I feel you man, they drone on and on and it's like, shut the fuck up already, I glazed over half a day ago. Bright side?” Louie grinned, dodging a pair of brightly dressed competitors running through the doorway. He frowned and then his face cleared abruptly, the leer back in place as they wandered down a long, warmly lit corridor with mosaic carpeting that hissed under the wheels of their suitcases. Mickey hated every fucking inch of it. “The skaters. Man, the speed skaters are pretty awesome and the figure skaters are all right, I mean, the dudes are friendly enough and buff but the ladies man, the ladies are lean and _nice_.” 

Mickey sniffed and found the smile had broken loose once he caught Louie's wriggling eyebrows and lecherous smirk. “Christ man, you sure you don't wanna go instead? Feel like I'm withholding somethin' from you!” he chuckled, looking back towards the end of the corridor in order to hide that fact that his face fell – Louie had no idea he was _gay_ gay, just thought he was Bi, and Mickey had felt no reason to change that. Louie probably wouldn't give two shits, and neither would his team mates because he was a cracking player and they cared little about what any of them got up to behind closed doors. But, when Louie got nasty in the locker rooms or trash-talked in the rink, Mickey was sent to clean up, and Louie had an unfortunate motor-mouth that ran without his brain's authority. He'd spat once or twice that Mickey would bend over the guy he was trash-talking to, would fuck him over in the literal sense and then bang his chick for the fun of it, and the result had been, when Mickey was let loose to finish the fight, a busted nose and a penalty for Mickey and filthy insults from the opposing team and never ending pot shots that, usually, fucked the game because Mickey couldn't concentrate through his rage and his team would back him no matter what. Nine out of ten, he'd leave the ice in order to save the play. If being Bi caused that much shit - and Louie wasn't the only one who used him like that to get a fight going - then telling the soft idiot he was full gay would no doubt fuck them all over, major. 

“Nah bro, I know you got your eye on Carolina.” 

“Who-alina?” 

“The blonde bean pole from Cali man, you know?” Louie bumped his shoulder cheekily and Mickey just nodded and gave a grunted _uh huh_ to shut him up. Carolina was a bitch and a snarky, pent up, ball-busting, rich-daddy, holidays to Peru every week, top of the bill kind of bitch at that. Mickey fucking hated her with a passion, and he hated that she was a _she_ because God knew he'd imagined taking her down with a stick on the ice every single time she did a Lutz. Every single time. 

“Milkovich! Fael!” 

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, forcing a smile when their Coach caught up to them from behind, slugging them both on the shoulders as he hopped backwards to keep level with them. His chipper attitude was rolling off of him in waves and, combined with his team uniform glaring at them, it made Mickey feel sick. If it weren't the fucking Olympics, he'd be high-tailing it back to the airport. 

“Rooms are sorted. Just go to the desk up ahead, state your name and sport and country, obviously, then go unload. Fael, you have the night free but I want you to stay with your team, got that? Get drunk and I'll kick your lilly ass,” the man raised his brows and pointed at Louie sternly. 

“Yes coach.” 

“Milkovich,” Coach turned and walked at his side, his hand tight on the back of Mickey's neck. The man was a tank, a loving man away from the ice, but a tank nonetheless. “You've got a lovely evening with me and Senlintsky and the other team leaders. Just a general meeting over the organisation of the march for the OC and just simply to meet each other as you'll no doubt bump into one another around here. Suit's in your room, someone will come for you at 7pm, don't be fucking late boy, and _no_ alcohol.”

“Coach,” Mickey agreed with a false smile, trying to hold his footing as the man shook him with a chuckle and released his neck. 

“S'my boy! Listen, you haven't seen Roberts have you? Fucker disappeared earlier and I haven't seen him anywhere.” 

Mickey shook his head and Louie shrugged with a face that said _nah bro, I ain't seen him_. “Sorry Coach, we got on the train after you guys. It was only me and Lou and a handful of the BST. Not seen anyone else,” Mickey said and sucked in his bottom lip, rolling his eyes to prevent a groan when his coach clapped his shoulder hard enough to make his knees wobble dangerously. Fucking tank. 

“If you see the fucker, tell him his ass is grass,” the man grumbled into Mickey's ear. 

“And you're the lawnmower. Got it, Coach.” 

“7, Milkovich,” he warned, turning after one final stare that had Louie shrinking his lanky frame in on himself, then he was off down the corridor towards the foyer and the entrance beyond, in search. 

“Jesus fuck, man,” Mickey sighed, rotating his shoulder, “He should fucking play for us, he'd smash anyone stupid enough to ram him. Fuck, ah.” 

“He did, once, almost killed a guy. He's a good coach, brutal, but one of the best we've had bro. Hey, let's check into this wonderland man so I can go chill the fuck out and you can go suffer-” 

Mickey side swiped Louie with his duffel bag, “ _Asshole_.” 

“Good evening, gentlemen, welcome to our Olympic Village. I see from your clothing that you are from Russia-” 

“Uh, no, the USA Ma'am,” Louie cut in with a smile, ignoring Mickey's cursing. 

“Oh, I am deeply apologetic. You wear such similar tracksuits, and your colours are the same. I am sorry,” the receptionist flushed cherry red with embarrassment so Louie beamed at her as Mickey forced a bright smile and waved her off. “Team USA – names and sport please?” 

“Louie Fael, Ice Hockey, Ma'am,” Louie smiled again, clearly flirting as he leant on the bar of the desk with one arm. The whole display had Mickey trying not to fake heave, so he turned away while the blushing lady tapped the information into the system in search, and his eyes landed on something that pique his interest immediately. 

“ _Sir, you told me your are Team UK, and there is no Callahan listed,_ ” the male receptionist said, clear enough for Mickey to hear, but not loud enough, blending in with the hum and buzz of the busy desk. The tall redhead was tapping the bar impatiently, like he'd had to repeat himself a thousand times, and he looked tired and pissed off. Mickey liked him already, eyeing the fist clenching at the man's hip. 

“ _No, I'm not Callahan and I'm not from the UK. I've told you this information like, fifteen times now. Shall I write it down because it's clearly too loud in here for your to hear me properly. Yeah, pen and paper, please,_ ” the guy looked like he was about to deflate and slide to the floor. Even Mickey couldn't actually tell where he was from. Yeah, the dude was wearing red, white and blue, but how many other countries had that colour? The fact that he'd growled through his teeth and dangerously low, it made it rather hard for his accent to be defined with all the noise going on. Mickey glanced at him, at the shape of his thighs and the length of his body – Mickey found himself leaning back a little to get a good look at his ass, trying to determine how tall the guy was from the way he was leaning on the bar, swearing into his hands while the receptionist dug out a pen and a pad. 

“Mick?” Louie called, not looking from the lady now grinning behind her computer. 

“Shit,” he whispered, thinking he'd been caught staring, watching, ogling – but he hadn't. “Yeah?” 

“Check in bro.” 

“Mickey Milkovich. Shit, shit no, sorry,” Mickey closed his eyes and stepped closer to the bar, “Sorry, that's not my given name. Mikhaylo Milkovich, Ice Hockey.” 

“Why do you have two names?” the lady asked as she typed in the information, trying to concentrate while Louie licked his bottom lip slowly. Mickey rolled his eyes and focussed on her even though his eyes itched to stare at the red-headed vision swearing to his right. 

“Mickey is a nickname, I guess, or a name I go by, prefer, you know?” 

“Oh yes, indeed. My name is a very complex one, but I like to be called Kura,” she wasn't looking at Mickey as she said this, but her screen intently, occasionally flicking her eyes to Louie who was still flirting. 

“I'm – sweet jesus, hey, Sir? Excuse me?” it took Mickey a moment to realise that he was 'Sir' and he turned to see the redhead staring at him with a pained and desperate look on his chiselled face. 

“The fuck you want?” 

“Exceptionally rude,” he grinned, “Would you mind helping me here? The receptionist can't understand me very well because I talk, apparently, like my mouth doesn't want to work. Slow, and he thinks I'm drunk and is about two fucking seconds from calling my coach, the one he _thinks_ I belong to, and security. You got a nice deep voice, he can't pretend to misunderstand you, and I fucking swear he's doing it on purpose for a kick. You look like you wouldn't stand for that kind of bullshit,” he smirked, eyeing Mickey's build like he approved of how threatening he came off. He was also American, that much was clear now he stood close enough, and his voice was smooth and captivating. 

“Uh, sure, whatever man.” 

“A real team player. Thanks man,” the guy smiled, “He's got my name, just can't grasp USA from UK. I don't have a fucking lisp either man, just a wide mouth-” 

“He know your sport?” Mickey cut him off before his head began to fill with filth. 

“Yeah, he knows that, just can't work out where I'm from by my accent. Jesus.” 

“Not like natives compete for their own teams sometimes, right?” Mickey pointed out with a smirk and the guy actually flushed, looking at the bar awkwardly. “You a BS or skier? Man you look like one of the crazy fucking Luge guys.” 

Red laughed, “Nah, not Bob Sleigh or Luge, that shits scary.” 

“Yeah it is!” Mickey agreed, turning when the receptionist cleared his throat. “Hey, Sir? He's on my team, USA, United States of America, apple pie eaters, too many accents and states to be healthy. You know, underneath Canada, above Mexico. Big Ol' Uncle Sam. Got that?” he said as nicely as he could, giving the man his sweetest smile, though he probably looked like he was grimacing in pain. The receptionist looked thoughtful for a second, then he put his pen up and nodded, typing away quickly on the computer. 

“Thanks man. See you around, I guess. Go Team USA right?”

“Fuck red, could you be any more sarcastic?” Mickey pushed off the bar with a chuckle, dipping to pick up his duffel bag as Louie pushed off from the bar with two packs in his hand. 

“Hah, long day.” 

“Tellin' me, man-” 

“ _Milkovich_! Get your ass up to your floor and sort yourself out boy. 7! Haul ass, you got just over an hour!” Mickey sighed and licked his lip before turning with another fake smile pasted on his face, nodding and saluting his coach as he waded through the crowd with Roberts tailing him. The guy looked miserable, no doubt had an ear chewing for vanishing like some stupid super hero. 

“Coach Thompson? Oh, you're a hockey player? Nice,” red said, nodding to himself while smiling softly at Mickey who coughed and wandered around him in order to avoid that green gaze. 

“Gotta go dude.” 

“Obviously. I'd haul it if he was breathing down my neck,” the guy laughed, turning to keep his sight on Mickey, “Thanks again, for helping.” 

“Yeah, sure, no worries,” and with a nod, Mickey turned fully into the crowd of competitors and caught up with Louie before he went through a set of doors that lead into another long corridor. Louie nudged him and wriggled his brows again, “Shut the fuck up, Lou, I helped him out. His receptionist wasn't listening as intently as ours was. Fucking flirty bastard, the hell man? You don't go anywhere without turning it on.” 

“What can I say bro? Ladies love Louie. But-” Louie stopped to yank a door open, the cold air smashing them both in the face, “the men love Mickey.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, _shut up_ Louie!” Mickey tried not to stomp along the walkway towards the hotels, but he was too tried to try all that much. Louie kept giggling just behind his left shoulder and Mickey was sorely being tested because he really wanted to smack the smile off his face. 

“Hey, least you'll see him again real soon bro.” 

“Fuckin' bro me one more time assface – wait, what do you mean?” Mickey turned to see Louie shrug. 

“The meal br – Mick. You'll see him all suited and booted.” 

“What the fuck for? Who is he exactly?” he tried to place the voice, the face, the hair, but all he came up with was the possibility that he was Johnson, the ski-jumper, or Lepkint, the speed skier, or even Barsen, the snow boarder. None of them were in the ice sector of Team USA. 

Louie shoved his arm and snorted, “The hell man, you don't know who that piece was? Blind motherfucker, anyone with a pulse knows that face. I'm a ladies man, but I'd bend over for him in a second man, Jesus fuck I would-” 

“Lou!” Mickey sighed, though his friends words struck a bell – he'd said something similar before, and about a guy, but Mickey couldn't quite find the name he knew he knew because goddamn, it was sitting right there, he knew it, but it couldn't say or see it. He pinched his nose and inhaled, focussing. 

“I know, shut the fuck up.” 

“Nah _bro_ , explain yourself. Who would you fuck – oh my god, _that_ was _Gallagher_?!” Mickey hissed, his heart rate pounding through his body because damn, from knowing what figure skaters looked like under their sparkly outfits – not his fault, accidentally wandering into the wrong changing area whilst sharing a rink in the summer – now had him seeing Gallagher in a whole other light because, fuck, the male skaters were hot and lean and seriously got his motor running. Knowing that the red vision with the coy smile and doe eyes and tall-as-a-building body, no doubt built like an Adonis under that baggy tracksuit, was a figure skater, a fluid and bendy and yet powerful man, well, Mickey was sure his body temperature was about to set off an avalanche because _fuck_ , he felt as hot as fire. 

“The newest face on the Figure Team. Record holding, jump smashing, body swaying Ian Gallagher. And you, Mickey, caught his eye.” 

“Fuck, shit,” Mickey whispered hotly, eyeing where they were walking and finding nothing appealing about freezing temperatures and snow everywhere. Ian Gallagher. _Jesus_. 

“Yeah, fuck shit. Damn bro, lucky son of a bitch. He's not only friendly, lovely and sweet, he's fucking stunning to watch, like some kind of poetry in motion that guy. Christ, I mainly watch the pairs and the women, but I've happily sat and watched him bust out a routine, s'a goddamn _dream_ bro. The only other guy I've watched without getting bored is Jason Brown. You seen him? Fuck, bro, he can move. Jesus, I think I might be falling in love with the male figure skaters bro-” 

“Oh god, Louie, shut _up_! Why would he be at this sit down bullshit?” Mickey rushed, desperate to get his mind off of men doing triple Salchow's and the splits, bending like nobody's business. 

“In the running to carry the flag tomorrow. Also, being the newest and on par with Max and Jason, the guy is pretty important for scores.” 

“How the fuck do you know all this stuff?”

“Unlike you, I make friends outside of my sport. I like the O-Games-” 

“Seriously, you better mean these ones and not fucking bedroom shit.” 

“- _and_ , I take interest in the rest of our fucking team man, like, collectively. 'Sides, I take keen interest in anything skate related, 'cause you can learn a little more from them. How do you think I managed to dodge that ram Baker fucking came at me with last week? I watched Gallagher and Brown training in Canada, they did some come-at-me-bro shit and like, at the last fucking second man they twisted like I did with Baker, 'cept neither of them got hurt and Baker got a knee to his balls. The fucking asshole deserves black balls for tryin' to take me down when I wasn't looking.” 

“You know he's gonna beat on you in training tomorrow mornin', right?” Mickey chuckled, remembering the look on Baker's face as he went down on the ice, howling threats as Louie sped off to the other side of the rink, hiding behind Senlintsky. 

“Yeah, I'm expecting it bro, but if he gets outta hand, you got me right?” Louie looked a little worried, though he didn't really need to be. Mickey had seen first hand what Louie could dish out if he needed to, but as he wasn't on the offensive like Mickey, he tried to stay out of the fighting so he wasn't penalised or sent off, so he could score more. Louie wasn't a little guy either, three inches higher in the atmosphere than Mickey, and built like a wall, like all of them were, but Baker was bigger and had been playing for the team longer. 

“Always Lou,” Mickey assured him with a grin, knowing that if push came to shove, he could take Baker but, ultimately, he'd be left busted up and out of the play. If Baker wanted to take Louie out, for protecting himself after foul play, then Mickey would do what he had to. Team or not, foul play was shitty. 

“Thanks man, I love you,” Louie yanked him close and planted a wet kiss on Mickey's temple, something he groaned about, shoving the bumbling idiot away. Louie looked down at his pack and then looked around at the hotels, “Building with a flake on it... flake, flake. Shit man, it's pretty. Big too. We are on the fifth floor, in the red zone.” 

“Best get up there then, before Coach appears again and fucking chews on me for dragging my feet,” Mickey grumbled, hauling his bag up higher and walking quickly towards the hotel lit up with ice-blue lighting and decorated with a massive snowflake on the roof. “Feel like I'm in fucking Lapland or some shit, waiting on Saint Nick to come flying outta somewhere, Ho-Ho-Hoing his ass off.” 

“Right?” Louie smacked his shoulder with a laugh. “Wouldn't mind a few of these ladies dressed up as Elves though, right? Damn, look at her body Mick, look!” 

Mickey snorted and looked at the woman in question, some brunette dressed in a ski-suit, dragging skis behind her with a strut that said she knew exactly how curvaceous and sexy she looked. Mickey gave his friend a wink and stuck his tongue between his teeth to save face, not at all interested, but the guy behind her, now his ass got a good staring at while Louie watched the woman saunter past. “Finland?” 

“Guessing so. Ain't that where Lapland is?” 

“Uh, yeah, think so,” Mickey mumbled, approaching the doors to their building, turning to see Louie standing and watching the Finnish skiers walking away with his mouth open. “Lou! Fucking H, _move_ man.” 

Louie whistled lowly and clicked his tongue, turning with a cherry red face and a filthy grin, “Damn though Mick, real fucking elves. Shit, I'd like to be the filling in that sandwi-” 

“Fael, _shut_ the _fuck up_ man, seriously. Not been here a full hour yet and I've had enough of you,” Mickey threw his hands up and stomped into the building, scowling at all and everything in there as he trudged to the elevators and stabbed the button far too many times. 

“Easy Milkovich, I'm sure the hosts don't wanna be paying for new access buttons because you're so fuckin' riled bro,” Louie snarked, ducking away from Mickey's fist with a laugh. “Chill bro. Chill.” 

“I couldn't be more chill, _bro_ , my feet are freezing and my dick's shot back up inside my body. It's like, -40 or some shit. I'm cold Lou, I need a shower and I need to game face myself for the next few hours to get through this bullshit dinner.” The doors pinged and slid open with a hiss and Mickey moved in as fast as he could, ignoring Louie as he stared in wonder at the décor in the box. It took less than a minute to get to their floor and as they turned out in to the corridor, Mickey groaned at the lighting and Louie laughed in delight. 

“Literally zoned us man,” he chuckled, heading down the right-hand hall that was lit with red sconces while the left was a sickening purple. “I'm here, nice and close to the exits. Mick, look dude, I know we're all tired and shit, but try and get a little excited man, it's the fucking Winter Olympics bro, and we're competing and you know, if we play the way Thompson says, we're in the running for a fucking medal dude! Just, remember that yeah? Not some nationals bullshit here. So you gotta go sit and be nicey-nice for a few hours, smile a lot more than your face can take and beat on Olympic players in the rink, but who fucking cares, right? This shit is epic! Besides that, there's like, tail everywhere man, think of that if nothing else.” 

Louie's enthusiasm and cheer made Mickey smile, genuinely, and Louie could see it was, he knew Mickey too well. Louie unlocked his door and, before Mickey could move, pulled him close and hugged him, kissed him hard on the mouth, goosed him and winked before shoving him backwards and locking the door so Mickey couldn't sock him for his games. 

“Fucker!” Mickey yelled through the door and could swear he heard Louie laughing, so he kicked it and moved off down the doors until he found his number, seven away from Louie's, near to a massive window and set of sofas. The view was something else, but Mickey merely shrugged and dropped his bag in favour of finding his keycard in the pack he'd had under his arm, eager to get in a hot shower and out from under this red-light-district feeling he had standing in the hall. Opening the door, he could see the plush state of the room and smiled, kicking his suitcase in before the door shut on it. The room was enormous, one side a living area with a TV on the wall, stunning art and furniture, windows that overlooked the slopes – the bedroom on the other side of the arch in the centre wall had a queen-sized bed, layered with fleeces and sheets and Mickey moaned at the sight of it. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in that bed and sleep the Games away. He had a small kitchenette just inside the door with basics, expensive items, but basic all the same, and he assumed the door he could see if he bent enough, next to the bed, was the bathroom. He toed off his Nike's and dragged his bags into the mini-apartment and through to the bedroom, throwing himself face first into the pillows of the bed and he moaned loud – it was as soft a feathers. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, snuggling into them, hugging the biggest one under him, humping it a little because Jesus, he had found heaven. “Fuck,” he spat when he hauled himself out of them, heading for the bathroom which, turned out, was a walk in closet filled with uniform in variations, his kit and pads and three suits with shoes in boxes on the floor. He sniffed and turned to look around the room, in search of the bathroom and smiled when he spotted another door that had been hidden behind the dividing wall. He marched to it, impressed as the closet door shut itself softly, and peeked inside the bathroom and immediately fell in love with the shower – floor to ceiling glass panels with some frosted swirls on them, a box shower head and room to swing his hockey stick, taps and knobs and baskets with toiletries and a towel heater just outside the door.

“Movin' in, fuck the game man,” he muttered in awe, stroking the glass lovingly. He glanced at the tub, a massive thing set in a raised section of the floor, all pristine white in coal slate. He knew he'd only need that if he took a battering, and he prayed he didn't need to use it at all. Everything in the room screamed money, care and pride – it was gorgeous. Mickey sighed and stripped off, carefully putting his tracksuit and team shirt on the counter, not wanting to mess up the room just yet, and it took him far too long to work out how the fuck to turn the shower on. 

“Fuckin-” he growled as no knob or tap worked, “Turn on, bitch!” he yelled, his tired body protesting and making him feel like he wanted to cry and punch the tiles. The shower beeped when he shouted _turn on_ again and erupted over him, soft and just a tiny touch too hot, but Mickey melted anyway, breathing out a long moan as he licked the roof of his mouth, bracing against the wall. “Sweet Jesus.” 

It took him half an hour to wash, working out which knob did what, some taps changing the temperature, while others caused the pressure to change, one knob pulsating the flow, another merging soap with the water. He didn't want to leave, but when he did, he was pink and drowsy and as relaxed as he was after a good pounding, only smelling like cherry and vanilla, not sweat and come. He dried and dressed in the suit labelled for the night, smiling at himself in the mirror to practise enough to be sure he could pass as being fucking happy, and not in agony, and sighed when the door knocked. On the other side was an immaculately dressed man, looking like a butler, and he bowed deeply. He looked more like an up-scale pimp in the red glow of the hall, not that Mickey would say so, because that raised more questions than good. 

“I am here, Mr Milkovich, to escort you to the restaurant for your meeting.” 

“All right, thank you. Do I need to bring anything with me?” Mickey asked as he ran his hand through his hair one more time to make sure the gel kept the long top swept back from his face. He pocketed his keycard and tugged the sleeves of his grey jacket, and the butler-assistant beamed at him, giving him a once over with a tiny thumbs up. 

“Just yourself, Sir.” 

In the foyer of the building, Mickey ducked and flipped Louie the bird as the man wolf whistled at him from where he was sitting on yet another plush sofa, three of their team with him, all hooting and goading Mickey for being dressed like some kind of Bond. 

“Knock 'em dead, Milky!” David laughed. 

“You're the eye candy for the night, baby, woohoo! I'd take you home sugar, come sit on my lap eh?” Louie winked at him and Mickey ran over to him quickly, ignoring the look from his escort, and got the blond in a headlock from behind. “Mick, no, Mickey, no, I'm sorry. Tap out! Bitch, let go, fuck!” 

“God, fuck each other already-” 

“You shut up, Kenn,” Mickey laughed at David, winking at Seth who covered his face with a wail. Louie coughed when Mickey released him and squeaked as Mickey yanked his head back against the sofa and kissed him, stuffing his tongue into his shocked mouth before wandering off victorious. 

“Gross, dude!” Louie yelled, “Nice to know you brushed your fuckin' teeth though, asshole.” 

“You love it Lou, don't you fuckin' protest,” said Seth, amused and yet not. He couldn't work out what the hell was wrong with the two of them, kissing each other like some kind of game, but he didn't find it offensive or disgusting any more than he would if one of them was a chick. Best friends were strange creatures. 

“Lets go,” Mickey said to his smiling escort, giving Louie both middle fingers as he backed out of the entrance and out into the freezing air. The shock of it had him gasping, jogging carefully to catch up and get in the golf-cart. “Cold, yeah?” 

“Very. It will not take us long, so you can be happy knowing you will not freeze to death before your meeting, Sir,” the chap said with a smile, his accent chopping his words, zipping along the designated lane quickly, heading for the area beyond the hotels where shops and eateries popped up. It took five freezing cold minutes before the cart stopped outside a restaurant decked in winter-esque decorations and lighting, and Mickey dogged the escorts steps until they were waiting to be seated inside where it was luxurious and warm and soft violin music weaved through the air. 

“Mr Milkovich, I will be back to collect you in a few hours. Enjoy your meal and your company. Good evening,” Mickey smiled as his escort bowed and left him to be taken to a table in the back, a huge thing with over 20 seats around it, some filled, others empty, all placed with swan-like napkins and a ton of silverware and glasses that had Mickey frowning. 

“Your seat, Sir,” the waitress swung her arm out elegantly and beamed as Mickey nodded his thanks, and she left. His coach had bitched at him for not being late, but the fucker himself was not here, so Mickey smiled smugly and sat himself down, looking around and feeling so completely out of place. He looked down the table and noticed the skaters, both speed and figure, chatting away while the guy from the curling team sipped his water and eyed a fish tank in the wall. 

“Milkovich?” Mickey's head snapped up and he swallowed tightly, trying his hardest not to look Ian up and down in his navy suit, but it was a difficult thing to do. 

“Gallagher,” he greeted with a smile, standing to shake his extended hand. “Get accommodated eventually?” 

Ian smiled and ducked his head, “Yeah. Tenth floor of the flaked building.” 

“Oh yeah? I'm on the fifth. Red zoned, not sure if that's on purpose due to being hockey players, or if they got the name wrong and think we're fuckin' hookers.” 

“Yeah? I'm sure that's stunning to see, the red, I mean,” Ian laughed and let go of his hand slowly, his gaze strong and making Mickey flush all too warm again. “I've been quarantined in the yellow, like we're in a biohazard area or something. Too bright man, it hurts my head.” 

“No doubt. I prefer red, myself,” Mickey said quietly, almost running from the restaurant because hell, he wasn't flirting, no way. He was. By accident. It was Ian's fault for smiling and staring at Mickey and wearing that gaddamn suit that hugged him like Mickey wanted to. 

“And I like blue,” Ian popped an eyebrow up and turned to look down the table as movement caught their attention. Jason was waving Ian over and Max was grinning, fingering a wine glass stem obscenely. “See you around, Milkovich,” Ian said, moving away with a lingering stare and all Mickey could do was nod dumbly and sit himself back down with a thump. 

“Dude, you're early, what gives?” Mickey laughed as his Captain was ushered to the table, looking harried and flushed from the cold. 

“Coach chewed on me enough that I got haulin' my ass. I didn't want to give him any more reason to chew me out tonight than he already has. But, in saying that, I got collected early enough I guess, so it's not all on me... Lookin' sharp, Bart,” Mickey said, laughing as his deliberate eye-fucking made Senlintsky flush red and fidget with irritation. 

“Fuck off Mick,” he smiled, sitting opposite. “Ready to meet the rest of the ice team? Eat gorgeous food and curse the no alcohol rule to high heaven? Hey, had a smoke yet?” 

“No, maybe, yes and no.” 

“Same man,” Bart sighed, “Gonna be a long night huh? Still, you look pretty and I don't mind having you as a visual for the night. Shouldn't be too much really, just introductions, any rotas for rink training, though I'm sure we have separated arenas... fuck knows man, I just wanna eat and sleep and forget hockey for one night. Think I could bang Carolina?”

“The fuck dude?” Mickey choked on his water, “Ugh, Jesus, she's a bitch, go after her, see what you get. Don't ever ask me that again, right?” 

“It's either her or you, man,” Bart sighed, teasing Mickey like the fucker he was and he got a kick in the shin for it. “Harsh Mick, you know I love your mouth, it's so plump and filthy.” 

“Fuck. Off.” Mickey warned, grinning into his glass as Senlintsky winked at him and pinned him with a playful and completely dirty smile. Neither of them had done anything remotely sexual together, but Bart, from the second he learnt Mickey was Bi, had used it to tease him mercilessly, meaning to harm at all, but it still got Mickey's blood going. Bart was gorgeous, dark and suave and fucking brutal in game, sweet and kind when he wasn't busting your back or taunting the shit out of you with a deep voice that had girls melting in their panties. Still, Mickey would never bang him even if he could, Bart was his friend and just wasn't his type and he'd heard his Captain fucking women on tours before and the man was loud and whiny. It was all for fun. Camaraderie. 

“Boys!” the Coach bellowed as he was lead through the tables and Mickey sighed at the people coming in behind. A long night indeed, and if Gallagher kept shooting him curious glances and tiny smiles like he had been, overhearing Bart, then Mickey was going to have a hell of a time concentrating on eating, let alone listening and answering. 

“Seriously Mick, crawl under the table and get to work, I can't deal with this, need a distraction,” Bart urged him quietly through his teeth and Mickey bunched up his mouth and threw his napkin at him, trying not to laugh or kick him harder than before. 

“Keep on, Senlintsky, you'll lose your side-kick I swear, or your cock,” Mickey hissed, hiding behind his glass as Bart laughed, then pouted and then put his hands up in surrender, causing Mickey to laugh at his ridiculous face, water going up his nose. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad? As Mickey glanced down the table to where Thompson was shaking hands with the skate coaches, Ian caught his eye and held it, letting his eyes roam Mickey's viewable portion of body, and bit his lip. No, the evening was going to be hell. Fucking figure skaters. Fucking Olympic bullshit. Fucking fitted, designer suits, _goddamn it_.

 


	2. You Can't Say That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the amount of chapters because i don't honestly know where this will stop so i'm just picking numbers until i know for sure... I wrote this over two days, it got away from me a little bit, but finally getting somewhere. Please note - homophobic slur, mention of blood, an actual fist fight, a lot of the use of the word fuck and all of its variations because hey, it's Mickey in ass-kicking mode, a'ight? Any mistakes are mine, if you see any, do point them out because i am real tired and probably missed loads. Also: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE COMMENTS AND LOVE YOU GUYS!!! i hope i do you all proud :) MERRY/HAPPY CHRISTMAS TOO! (this is my gift to you all in Gallavich right now because, yo, who else in hotly denying this season 6 shit? OVER HERE, COME SIT WITH ME AND IGNORE IT WITH FIRE!)

“Fuck off,” Mickey groaned into his pillows, spread like a starfish, and diagonally at that, with his head buried under four or five of them. The noise kept on screaming at him though. “Fuck _off_!” he shouted, throwing the closest thing near him in the general direction of the screaming; a shoe. There was a thump, but it did nothing to quell the noise that kept on blaring and getting louder every five seconds. Mickey, much as he fucking hated it, got up to search it out and murder whatever it was causing it, kneeling groggily in the middle of the giant bed, blinking around sleepily until his eyes landed on the coffee table in the living area where his phone was vibrating itself in a dance on the glass top. His alarm.

Unsteadily, he got off the bed and almost tripped himself on the kicked-off fleece on the floor, stumbling on half awake legs until he reached it with a growl and turned it off with violent pokes.

_4:02am From Coach_

_Rise and shine! The train leaves at 5:15. If you miss it, and you better fucking not, a beating in the rink will feel like the snuffaluffagus is tickling you compared to the can I'll open on your ass._

“Fuckin' asshole,” Mickey grumbled, rubbing a hand down his face as he dropped the phone back on the table. It wasn't a direct threat, more of a group text to every poor shit on the team. He sourly thought about how much he would love to take that beating, if only to give the smarmy fuck a smack in the teeth, but thought better of it as he dragged his bone tried body to the shower to wake up a bit more, kicking his boxers down his legs with a spat command to the shower. The meal had been chatty, routines and schedules thrown about over his head, arguments over who was going to carry the country flag at the Opening Ceremony, a lot of deafening laughter once everyone had decided that Gallagher was the best to lug the pole about, being one himself, and they had retired at 11pm, Mickey not getting into bed until half past or midnight, he wasn't sure, with an alarm set for 4am. He cursed under the spray of the shower and quickly cleaned himself, yawning explosively as he rinsed his hair and got a mouth full of gel-tainted bubbles for it.

“Seriously, this morning can kiss my fucking sack,” Mickey stomped from the bathroom, towelling himself as he went in search of his kit in the closet. His suit was strewn all about the bedroom, his jacket hanging on the stool by the breakfast bar, and he faintly wondered why his shoe had been in bed with him and where the hell was his tie? They had not been allowed any alcohol, and they way he remembered getting in and stripping, he could swear blind he had been smashed off of his rocker, but no, simply exhausted. He dressed quickly in his tracksuit and made sure everything he needed to take to practise was in his holdall, laced his Nike's and hooked his stick before leaving with a deep scowl, snatching up his phone as he went. As he opened the door, he yelled and nearly fell back inside the room on his ass, his hockey stick clacking off the wall he tried to grab hold of, “ _Holy fucking_ – Louie, the fuck man?! _Jesus_!”

“Sorry bro,” Louie snorted, not at all apologetic with his hand raised to knock. “Was just coming to get you. I got a cart to take us to the station 'cause you know, these bags are heavy man. Kinda good of me, bro, 'cause you look like shit man.”

“Shut up, Happy Gilmore. S'too fucking early,” Mickey frowned, making sure his door was locked before they both lugged their bags and shuffled down the hallway that was, thankfully, dim with all of the lights on super low now the sun was threatening to come up.

“Wonder why he's making you go so early, dude, I mean, keeping you up late and making you get up at the ass crack of dawn _after_ the travelling.... bit mean, bro, could have let you come a few hours later, right?”

Mickey pulled a face and eyed Louie's bed-hair as they waited for the elevator, “ _Mean_? How old are you, six? What time did you go to bed, numbnuts?”

“Lights out at 10, bro. And fuck you, six year olds care far more deeply than some assholes I know,” Louie nudged him as the doors opened and Mickey swore under his breath, swinging his bag in carefully while purposefully avoiding Louie's eye. The fucker was grinning so smugly that Mickey tipped his stick and hit his ankle bone. “Bitch, _ah_.”

“Morning Milkovich, Louie,” Gallagher greeted softly, his voice thick with sleep, his wide mouth and eyes puffy, mop of red hair askew, cheeks as rosy as the tracksuit he had on – not that Mickey saw this, he wasn't looking at all, simply staring a killing glare at Louie in the mirrored wall.

“Mornin',” Mickey muttered, sniffing and pretending to find his track jacket zip too low all of a sudden.

“Morning Ian! How's it going man? I like how we all have different sports clothes, like, we got all this block colouring and you guys get sleek, single colours, and man, the skiers? God did they get the bad end of the bargain? Sparkling shit! Hah!” Louie was far too loud, far too cheerful, and knew it. Ian laughed lightly and reciprocated the punch in the arm, pushing Louie's bright face away lightly. Obviously Louie had failed to mention just how well he knew Ian, though everyone got on with Louie, it was hard not to love him, but still.

“Oh god, you're a like an excitable puppy man. You know, it's acceptable to keep it shut before 7 in the morning, right? 'M too tired for you right now, shush,” Ian said softly, laughing thickly with a sleep clogged throat, and the noise shot straight down Mickey's spine and made him shake from head to foot. Louie noticed, because though he might seem a bit dense and sufer-dude-like, he had eyes like a pissing hawk and the attitude of a hyena, and when he saw something he wanted to set his teeth in, he just kept at it. His eyes widened and his grin curled to reveal his tongue licking his teeth in the mirrored wall and Mickey closed his eyes, preparing himself, calming himself in case he snapped in the face of whatever the _fuck_ the blond bloodhound was going to say – that would only serve to fuel Louie more, not make him back the fuck off, and having Gallagher standing right there, well it would raise too many questions, even _if_ Gallagher was dreamily watching his own fingers curl into a fist and uncurl repeatedly, completely unaware.

“Mi-”

“S'cold man, shut up.”

“But it's toasty warm in here, bro, maybe you should-”

“Lou. Drop it,” Mickey warned, turning slightly to give him what he hoped was a look that said _do you want to go there?_ As the doors slid open on the ground floor. Ian stepped around them, and if he brushed his hip and leg against Mickey's backside as he bent to lower his holdall to the floor, then it was accidental. He was still groggy and sleepy, so that meant unsteady and lowered spacial awareness. Mickey refused to think otherwise as he watched Ian's legs stride out their building from under his brow, the redhead calling out a gentle _see you_ as he went from sight. Mickey shivered again.

“Might want to put your coat on then, bro, if you're _so_ cold,” Louie quipped from his left, the smirk in his voice as clear as the snow outside. Mickey refrained from rising to his baiting, it was too early to get into it, so he opted to dig through his bag until he found a coat to slip on, grimacing at the red, white and blue glaring at him from his arms, and he rubbed his jaw as the cart pulled up outside.

“Where's everyone else man?”

“Dave and Seth left about five before me, heard them in the hall, so, maybe all of the guys are already making tracks to the station, or maybe only half, or only a few-”

“Lou, seriously, if you don't know, fucking say so man, Jeez,” Mickey sighed, sucking it back in as the freezing air struck him hard in the throat. He tried to swear his shock out, but all that came out of his body was a gurgled noise that had Louie laughing out great white puffs from his mouth as they loaded their bags and sticks carefully.

“Grumpy, cussy pants Milks today aren't you? Had that smoke yet?” Louie asked he as belted himself into the small cart, smiling brightly to the man driving, his grin catching the native off guard. Too early for everyone, it seemed.

“No.”

“Oh, really? Wouldn't have guessed, you know?” Louie ducked as Mickey swiped at him, laughing triumphantly at Mickey's grin. Louie was his fucking kryptonite and the bastard knew it, because no matter how sour he felt, or how violent and nasty he got, Louie always managed to break it down until he was smiling without with brain's permission.

“Asshole.”

“ _Your_ asshole, correction, Mickey-moo,” Louie hissed when the punch landed on his thigh and scowled at Mickey's half-hearted annoyance at the stupid nickname. “Hey, how long to the station, Sir?” Louie leant back over his seat to catch the drivers eye as they bumbled along.

“About 10 minutes, gentlemen,” he said, not taking his concentration off his task of not running over any early rising competitors walking around. He zipped around a certain lanky figure skater haunched over, hands deep in his pockets to ward off the chill, though now, Mickey noticed as they passed him - they were rear facing - he had a scarf covering him up to his nose so the bridge was bright red from the cold. Mickey watched him bobbing his head to whatever he was listening to down his earphones, eyeing his long legs, the shift of his thigh muscle with every hit of his foot on the ground, the sway of his hips, and he continued to spy, as Ian was in their line of sight, until their cart went around a corner.

“Could you drop us at this end of the bridge? We can walk the rest of the way there, it's no problem, promise,” Louie said sweetly and the driver nodded, slowing the cart as it went around the shape of the main building, stopping entirely by the wide mouth of the connecting bridge to the train station. “Bro, there's a smokers shelter. We got ten before we gotta start running, so get puffin'. You've gone too long without man, and murder charges are fucking _serious_ here bro, and I don't wanna go down for strangling your bitchy neck,” Louie said the last bit into Mickey's ear and got a thump dangerously close to his throat for it as Mickey leapt from the cart and hauled his things out as fast as he could. He dragged his holdall a few steps and began patting himself all over, getting more frantic, much to Louie's amusement. Fucking dork.

“Fuck, I don-” he stopped, a massive smile cutting his face as Louie twisted his wrist and produced a bent cigarette from his sleeve. “Love you, Louisiana,” Mickey leered, snatching it and the lighter that appeared a second after, also from up Louie's mystery sleeve. He let his friend kiss him on the forehead as he lit it and jogged to hide in the frosted shelter, moaning with the first lungful, completely ignoring the way Louie loitered, chuckling into his collar.

“If I'd known that giving you a smoke would have you so easy-”

“Do _not_ complete that sentence if you wish to see the OC, bitch, I swear.”

“Puff quicker, you're still angry, it's not working' fast enough - Hey stalker, what gives? You want a piece after all?” Louie's cheerful banter cut through Mickey's hazy mood, his smile dropping as he stilled and eyed the blurred shape of his friend through the panels of the shelter, his blocked blue and red suddenly joined by a taller red one. Shit.

“Why do I keep running into you, huh? How many people are competing here, seriously though? Cause it's gotta be a fair few thousand and yet, all I see if your fuckin' smile everywhere I go Lou. You sure _you_ don't want _this_?” Mickey could see the red of his arms move up and down like he was referring to his own body, and though Louie ducked his head and sniggered into his collar, Mick flushed because if he'd been standing there, his mouth would have dropped open just as it had hiding in the shelter, cigarette hanging off his lip dangerously.

“Shit, Ian, you know I ain't wired that way... but for you? I've said before, I could be persuaded man. Serious though, for real, I was tellin' Mickey this, I swear he didn't believe I would fuck a guy like he likes to do because I'm all for the girls man-” Mickey, ice cold from shock, was happy that Louie's insane rambling got cut off with a swoop of Gallagher's arms, shutting him up with a chuckle. The dick had outed him, by accident as usual, fucking motor mouth. To Gallagher. _Fuck_.

“Who's Mickey? _Boyfriend_?” Ian sounded like a schoolboy goading a blushing girl, and though Mickey couldn't see, he knew Louie was probably blushing worse than a taunted virgin, out of both embarrassment and mortification because, out of all of the flirting he had done, slipping up on _Mickey_ had been the only thing the ginger giant had picked up on.

“Fuck, he wishes,” Mickey scoffed, fingering the filter as Louie sniffed loudly, “You serious, you don't know who Mickey is?” Louie barked a laugh and began crunching though the snow to the arch in the shelter and Mickey flinched, sucking in a deep drag of his cigarette as Louie's hand and forearm appeared, gesturing animatedly until more footsteps trudged closer and then, there he was, snow-blasted and sparkly eyed, looking right at Mickey with fascination etched all over his bright red face, his mouth forming an O until it began curling into a coy smile.

“Hey, _Mickey-_ ”

“He's so fine, so fine he blows the mind, a'ight?” Mickey pinched his thigh to stop himself yelling at Louie as the blond shuffled off. Best friend or not, he was going to rail his ass in the rink and Louie would know, did know, if his awkward movements told anything.

“Fuck, great as he is, _how_ do you cope?” Ian huffed quietly, trying not to laugh as Mickey scowled at the blurry shape of Louie moving back to their kit. “Enough left for me to steal a drag on it?” Ian nodded at Mickey's hand, eyeing the way his finger rubbed the filter. Mickey eyed him steadily and held the smoking stub out, sucking in a breath as their chilled fingers brushed, an inhale Mickey quickly disguised as being cold, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them, bouncing his knees like he was freezing. He was on fire.

“Thanks,” Ian said, holding in the smoke so he could stub the butt out and drop it into the little bin bolted to the frame, exhaling with a groan of pleasure of his own. Mickey shot to his feet and coughed, dodging around the leaning, lanky vision of temptation, avoiding his long legs and protruding backside as he went.

“No problem,” Mickey smiled, hauling his bag up onto his shoulders. He pierced Louie with a blazing look, “Come on, before we get nailed for being late.”

“Yeah, c'mon Torch,” Louie chirped, easily keeping up with Mickey's quick gait.

“Torch?” Ian called, trotting behind them and Mickey frowned, wondering why the fuck he was following and when his eyes landed on the station at the end of the bridge, he rolled his eyes. _Oh yeah_. It was probably more for Louie, so that he had a witness if Mickey finally lost it.

“Flame on?” Louie tossed over his shoulder, looking back and forth between Mickey, who refused to look at him, and Ian, looking like it was the most obvious thing. “No? 'Mkay.”

“Milkovich! Fael! _Move_!”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey hissed under his breath, ducking his head to hide the scowl on his face as their coach waved at them from the doors to the station. The rest of the team looked to be present, maybe one or two others missing, but Mickey didn't care, all he could think was _so tired_ and _man I could murder a McDonald's breakfast after I slaughter Fael_.

“Least we ain't late bro – yeah, later man! Enjoy throwing your chewbacca ass around the rink, yeah?” Louie called as Ian patted Mickey on the shoulder, squeezing his bicep as he passed and making it look like he was trying to avoid knocking Mickey's bag off his shoulder, and jogged down the walkway towards Max and Jason who looked less-than-awake and far from happy where they huddled together, puffing foggy breaths.

“Chewy?” Ian laughed, turning to hop backwards, “I'm as bare as a baby, Louie.” Mickey coughed and rubbed his nose, determined not to lose his breakfast thoughts to the imagine of a smooth, pale, lithe athletic body moving rhythmically to music. He began mumbling under his breath to keep his thought train on the right track.

“McMuffin, hash browns, oh _god_ , freckles to play dot-to-dot with your tongue, thighs to prop your own on – _fuck_!” Mickey hissed, screwing his eyes shut tight to stop looking at said thighs tightening with every hop, and hoping to high heaven that Louie hadn't heard his quite mutterings.

“I meant your fuckin' height!” Louie chuckled, his finger up, and Ian gave a laugh, waved and ran the rest of the way, something Mickey couldn't tear his eyes off of – the bouncing globes of his ass made him groan in misery. Louie leant close and whispered, “Tap that, know you wanna.”

“The fuck, Lou?!” Mickey tried to look scandalised, but he knew he failed and it wasn't like Louie couldn't see through anything he tried to fake. He very nearly dropped his holdall in favour of landing his friend on his backside, and if their coach hadn't growled like a goddamn bear, he might have.

“Seriously, drag those asses any slower and I'll pull you by your pubes, come _the fuck_ on. Train leaves in two!” Their coach pointed at both Mickey and Louie, giving them the _I'm watching you_ fingers and a stern glare. “Seriously, you lot would think I've never gotten you up early before, or that, you know, we weren't in fucking _South Korea_ going to a training session in an arena for the _Winter Olympics_. You think you're tired now, you wait until I'm done with you, _fuck_ ,” Thompson clapped his hands together, grumbling _chop chop_ to the whole team as they collectively groaned and hefted their tried bodies and heavy luggage through the turn styles – easily done, not like the wardens could argue with a pass around Thompson's neck and their get -up – and into the waiting high-speed train. The hostesses quickly took their bags and sticks, carefully manoeuvring them into holding bays and cabinets with glass doors while those who didn't, ushered the men into seats that threatened to send them to sleep in seconds, asking for breakfast orders, drinks, if any would like neck pillows or blankets.

“I'll take a coffee with condiments and something made with eggs, please?” Mickey asked, frowning himself at how stupid he sounded, but the cute young lady merely smiled and moved to ask Louie what he wanted, blushing when he blatantly turned on the charm. As the train began to move, silently and with little swaying, the heating kicked in a little more to warm them through, and Mickey found his eyes drawn to the country and view that was flying by, bathed in golden light from the rising sun. Nothing in the world could tell him he was being too flowery when all he could think was _gorgeous_.

“Milkovich?” Mickey blinked tiredly and turned to peer through the gap in his seats, seeing Bart's face and Seth grouching into his interpreting machine, a thing he really didn't need to carry around, but he was determined to talk to other nationalities and it was totally not just to make polite conversation, as much as he swore it was. “You get back OK last night dude?”

“Uh, yeah, clearly, dickhead, why?”

“Just, you know, you looked like you were going to fall on your trout pout when you got collected by your driver. Man, Gallagher had a time holding you up,” Bart chuckled and Mickey flashed cold, then hot, then he felt overly sick and prayed the smell of coffee would fend it off. _This_ was news.

“The fuck're you talkin' about, man?” Gallagher had said nothing, or even hinted at or indicated anything past more than their introductions. Mickey felt off kilter all of a sudden. He must have been way more tired than he thought he was and a belly full of good food sent him to another realm where he remembered fuck all, apparently.

“You left with the skater – wait, it _is_ Gallagher, right? Ginger who gets to haul the flag tonight, magic feet and all that?”

“Yes, s'Gallagher. I didn't leave with him asshole, probably hitched a ride or some shit, I don't remember,” Mickey yawned, turning to offer his thanks as a steaming mug of coffee was set down on the table in front of him, sugar, milk, cream and chocolate mints all singing to his receptors.

“Well, leaving with him is leaving with him, not like he _carried_ your sorry ass, but I think he would have if needed,” Bart flicked an eyebrow up and took his tea from a tittering lady, “Thank you. Nah, Mick, you were seriously exhausted last night man. We were all too into our discussion so he kind of followed you out, making sure you were OK or something, so I gotta thank him for that. I did see him holding you up though, as you went through the door, and you took off your tie and tied your forearms together like we do to keep someone upright on the ice. Coach worried you'd been drinkin' on the sly, but we know you're a good boy. Not seen you so lethargic man, so if you start feelin' less than, you fuckin' say right? I don't want any serious injuries just because you think you can handle it. Tiredness kills man, and I know you didn't sleep on the plane.”

“Course man, you ain't gotta worry, I don't fuck about when it comes to being in the rink, you know that,” Mickey assured him softly, keeping his voice low like Bart so as not to draw any attention. Yes, he was exhausted, and no, he wouldn't lie about it to keep playing. Skates are razor sharp and one slip is a life on the line and that was something Mickey would never fuck about with. It was rough enough getting rammed or slipping or getting into a fight, but to threaten it with tiredness? Suicide.

“All right Milky, I just want you focussed, you know that,” he knew Bart wasn't trying to make him feel inadequate or babied or stupid, for that matter, it was his man-way of saying _I don't want to see you hurt_ , so when Senlintsky smiled, Mickey answered with a sincere one of his own, turning back to his coffee. As he mixed in a sugar and added cream, he became very aware of eyes on him and he glanced up to find Louie smiling at him on the opposite side of his table.

“ _So –_ he helps you to bed and you don't even tell him your fuckin' name bro? What's that about, do somethin' you shouldn't have?” he whistled and Mickey's eyebrows shot into his hairline.

“Fuck _off_ , Louie, don't you even dare go there, you know I don't- What's this pally-pally shit you two got goin' on man? How about that, huh?” Mickey grunted, sipping his coffee to hide the deep, body consuming flush of embarrassment that engulfed him as Louie smirked like a cat who found a canary doused in cream and covered in cat niblets – trust that fucker to hear about where his tie had ended up. Louie put his hands up and then motioned down his body as if it said everything. Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.

“I was thinkin' bro, if we get chance, we should go watch the women skaters doing their training and warm-ups, 'cause, you know, lycra and spandex man,” Louie said after a tense few minutes on Mickey's half, fun for Louie, watching his raven haired friend fidget and squirm and drink piping hot liquid without flinching _just_ to keep from talking to him.

“Not that we will get any free time, but a'ight, sounds better than nothing I guess,” Mickey agreed, sitting back in his seat to look out of the window, avoiding Louie's eye until he took the hint and stopped trying to catch Mickey's, ties and Gallagher's and skating women forgotten as the landscape steadily changed from being totally snow covered to not-so-much. His plate of eggs arrived and he thanked the hostess, staring at the plate until his eyes stung enough for him to blink.

“That's the ticket, boys, look here at what Sergeant Slaughter is packin' in to get his protein fix,” Thompson hollered down the coach and Mickey chuckled as he peppered his banquet of eggs, every variety he could even begin to think of and then two more he'd never seen before, before snagging a strip of bacon off Louie's plate. “None of that Cheerio's and soy shit Hollander fuckin' thinks is good,” Hollander ducked his dark head and went pink under the goading of the team as Thompson pointed at his sorry looking bowl on the table in front of him.

“Why so many eggs bro?” Louie said, happy with his enormous serving of crispy bacon, so much so, he picked off a few good strips and planted them on the side of Mickey's egg mountain without thinking much of it, shifting the others around his poached egg and pancakes.

“I asked for something _with_ eggs, but I guess I can't complain too much, looks real fuckin' sweet man,” Mickey beamed before stabbing a lump of scrambled egg and stuffing it in his mouth. “ _Oh_ my god.”

“Hah, don't come in your boxers bro,” Louie muttered, crunching bacon as Mickey frowned deeply at him. “Missing syrup.”

“Not allowed it.”

“Bullshit rules man,” Louie griped, settling sourly for using his yolk.

By the time they reached the end station in Gangnueng, Mickey was completely relaxed and ready to get his hockey on – He'd fished his Ipod out of his bag and had turned up the volume and tuned out all of the chatter Louie had been firing back and forth between Seth, who moved to sit next to David on the other side of the aisle, and occasionally Bart whenever he stuck his head around the seats. Any other person joining in was unnoticed by Mickey as he kept his sight on the scenery most of the time. They knew not to disturb his pre-rink chill out if they didn't want him on their tails on the ice.

“There's three arenas here, ours is the one with the green flags outside. Yellow is curling and speed skaters I think, red is the men's figure skating, or it's the other way around, don't fuckin' know or care to be honest, I only wanna know where we are. The ladies are off site in the university down the street. You will not leave these grounds and seek them out, even in break-” Thompson put his hand up when the grumbling began, “Understood?”

“Yes Coach,” the entire team chorused, following with audible sighs as he lead them along the walkways towards their building. Louie looked really annoyed knowing he couldn't go peek on the ladies training, and Mickey tried his hardest to look as irritated about it all.

“Best get an eyeful before they disappear bro, _look_ at those leotards man, oh god the blood is going down yo!” Louie whistled, roughly shaking Mickey as a cluster of female skaters walked ahead of them, half of them stripping off their jackets to reveal the top-half of their spangly, tight lycra leotards underneath. Sure it was way warmer down on the coast, but it wasn't fucking boiling. Mickey leered as Louie and most of team did, wolf whistling much to Thompson's chagrin as he slapped his hand over his face and pretended he wasn't there.

“Jesus,” Mickey breathed heavily, his sight locked on to a particularly tight leotard just ahead of the girls.

“I know, right? Hot fuckin' damn, honestly, it's a shame they ain't on site man. I just want to touch that material bro, my fingers are itching,” Louie agreed, though he was watching what looked like Australian and Swedish competitors whereas Mickey, well, Gallagher had removed his jacket and was just ahead with Jason and Max. Mickey was gaping at his short-sleeved leotard shaping his back and shoulders and waist in a dazzling shade of blue, the white cuts wrapping around his biceps like fingers, red lines around his waist like ribbon, moving with each step he made. It was painted on, had to be, to be so tight.

“ _Christ_.”

“Hey, as sacrilegious as it is that we can't go watch them if we get chance, we could go watch the curling? Or the boys practise, could learn a few manoeuvres, or just enjoy what they do, you know? They are pretty fucking spectacular bro. Or we could stake out at the station and watch the ladies coming and going,” Louie smiled, still watching the women like the rest of their team. “Would rather watch them coming,” he mumbled lewdly and Mickey snorted at him, nudging the filthy fucker with his shoulder to shut him up before he went any further with that motor mouth of his.

“Sure, whatever man,” Mickey said, his gaze flicking between where they headed and towards where Gallagher's shimmery back forked off towards another massive arena, disappearing around a wall before Mickey felt he'd drank in the sight of him enough.

“We have the rink for the first half of the morning, then break for lunch, then we have another two hours in the afternoon before we head back for the ceremony. I want you all to hash out what we went over the night before we flew out, right? Same routine, same moves, same game play. You know your places and what you do best, so get on the ice and show me I haven't made a fuckin' mistake in picking any of you assholes. Reserves on the bench, you girls know who goes on the ice first, and who sits the fuck down until I say. Let's go ladies!”

Mickey, along with the rest of his team, all nodded and laced up their skates in the changing room, checking they were padded up correctly, checking each others lacing, uniform alignment for optimal performance and safety – did not go well to get snagged – and then they were heading out into the cold air of the arena to a pristine ice rink, polished and smoothed and calling out to be scuffed and abused by their blades. As Mickey pulled off his skate guards, Thompson grabbed Louie and Shaun by the backs of their jersey's and held fast.

“Baker, Fael, no fuckin' groin shots, dirty shots, blind hits, head shots or otherwise, hear me? I swear, if you dare put a foot outta line, I'll be on that ice so fast you'll think Barry Allen just turned up to play hooky.”

“Coach,” they both said clearly, shaking hands to placate the man before he let go. Mickey saw them turn and Baker's face turned into a scowl as he sat to pick off his guards, Louie equally as dark and Mickey licked and bit his bottom lip, raising his eyebrows as high as he could under his helmet and if Louie saw him, he didn't make a show of it. He turned and followed Bart and Seth to the door in the barrier and breathed easy as his skates hit the ice and he glided effortlessly to where he needed to position himself. For half an hour they passed the puck back and forth, warming up with shouts of who to aim for, where to rotate and move to, every player in the rink until Thompson blew a whistle and half of the team left to sit on the bench.

“Mick, on the defence, ghost Fael,” Senlintsky said as he slid past, barely taking his eyes off of Stuart and Hollander bitching at the other end of the rink. Mickey did as he was told when the play turned from idle movements to full on game play with them rocketing around the rink, avoiding collisions and tackles, ghosting Louie as he shot around trying to steal the puck and shoot it.

“Foul play, Fael, get it together!” Thompson roared when Louie tried a trick shot to get around Baker's hulking form.

Louie sneered as he looped back, “Motherfucker.”

“Pansy assed fuckin' brown noser.”

“For fuck sake, don't start somethin' you ain't gonna finish guys, seriously, play right or get the fuck off the ice!” Bart snapped and Mickey groaned. It wasn't the starting he gave a shit about, but the finishing because they wouldn't finish it, _he_ would. He growled and bit down on his gum-shield as they picked up the pace again.

After another hour and a half with a fifteen minute recap and drink, Thompson sent on the the other half of the team as opponents and Mickey grinned, thoroughly enjoying himself and the freedom he felt flying around on his blades, so far avoiding any real hits or collisions and having had no trash-talk emerge past Louie and Baker, he felt content to hash it out properly.

“Won't go easy on you,” he warned Seth as he pulled up short in front of him. His new target.

“Don't expect you to, bitch.”

“Oh, like that is it?” Mickey chuckled and Seth merely grinned, a sound in his throat that suggested he was seriously eager to get on Mickey's last nerve. Thompson blew his whistle and the fight started instantly, loud echoing shouts bouncing off of every pane in the barricade, hissing of the skates and grunting of strikes hitting their marks, all of it singing to Mickey's instinct to win.

“Milkovich! Offensive!” Bart's switch was the icing on Mickey's cake and he gave a brisk nod, switching his blades so Seth was hovering on his other side instead, Mickey now _his_ target. By the time he had had Seth chase him over every single inch of the ice, Mickey was laughing and his thighs burned and his lungs protested every deep breath he took. He felt alive and he fucking loved it. That was until Thompson blew his whistle three times in a row, and Mickey felt his gut drop, turning to look for the fight.

“Get _the fuck_ off the ice! I warned you!” Thompson bellowed, looking like he was going to leap the wall and belly slide to where Baker had Louie in a headlock. Bart stood close by watching, as did most of the team, sighing and taking the time to get some air in, waiting until the men tired themselves out. Fights broke out all the time, not so often in their own team training, but it happened – rules were, if they stayed upright, they allowed the fight until the players gave up or tired the other one out. If they went down to the ice, then it got broken up before serious injuries occurred. Mickey just hoped Louie kept Baker from getting him on the ice because then he'd have to step in with Senlintsky and he really didn't want to, not today.

“Break it up guys, come on!” Isaacs yelled from in goal, throwing his gloves down in temper. Mickey turned to laugh at him as Seth did but Bart waved at him and he groaned, really loud too, because fuck these two. He shoved his stick at Seth who managed to grab it before it fell, shrugging a _what can you do_ look as Mickey glided over the ice and set to pulling Baker off Louie while Bart got a hold of Louie around the middle before his body went down as it was threatening to. Their sticks were thrown feet away and their gloves and gum-shields near by too. No blood yet, which Mickey took as a good sign, if any.

“You fuckin' dick, Baker! Shit move, asshole, I fuckin' swear to god!” Louie growled as he struggled.

“Not my fault you're - fuck! A fuckin' girl, Fael,” Baker chuckled, a broken sound as Louie thrashed and wriggled and tried to get away, swinging punches that didn't land.

“Hey, _enough_!” Mickey shouted, yanking Baker's arms while Bart tugged Louie's waist harder.

“Give it up already, _Jesus_ , fight it out in the changing rooms after for fuck sake, not right now! Jesus, you forget why we are here, doing this, huh? You not care or somethin'?” Bart hissed, ducking as Louie swung again.

“As if I'd hit him without his kit on, don't wanna actually hurt the baby-”

“I can take you, fuckhead,” Louie squawked as Baker's forearm caught under his chin tightly, and Mickey nearly laughed at the noise that came out of him. “Come at me without rules protectin' your ass, see what you get bitch, _see what you get_!”

“The fuck? You think you're some kind of UFC there, Lou?” Shaun teased and then howled as Louie managed to get a grip on his thigh and grab it hard, twisting it. “Mother _fucker_! Horse bites are shitty man!”

“So is side-swiping me in a blind spot, you total fuckin' bastard. The second time you've done it, cunt!”

“Whoa Lou-” Mickey grunted as they parted, narrowing his eyes on Louie for the cursing flying out of his mouth. Baker just laughed, moving away to straighten out his uniform while Louie heaved in air.

“Pathetic,” Shaun spat on the ice and skated off towards where their coach was beet red in the face and hissing like a dragon. “ _Faggots_ ,” though it was low, at least half of the team inhaled and froze, including Baker when he realised his slur had been heard, _and_ by Mickey.

“The fuck did you just say?” Mickey asked, his voice calm and low and if that wasn't warning enough, then Baker was deaf all of a sudden because the idiot shrugged, pointed at both Mickey and Louie and grinned, muttering the slur again and making hand gestures to fucking. Thompson blew up on the bench.

“You know Mikhaylo, bitches like to be bent over don't they?” Baker goaded and Mickey laughed coldly, licking his lip and scratching his nose.

“You might be a mile fuckin' tall, jackass, but you don't scare me for a fuckin' second, hear me? I can and _will_ drop your sasquatch ass to that ice in a snap if you don't take it back, on all there is, I will whale on you _so good_ ,” Mickey seethed, skating around Baker a few times, giving him time to apologise, but when he didn't, merely laughed and gave him a wanker gesture, Mickey saw red and stopped in front of the giant bastard. This wasn't some kid's punch up any more, and the air changed in the rink quick. He dimly heard his coach screaming at Baker, warning Mickey - _don't you do it_ \- he heard Bart yell something, felt hands grab at him but his sight was on Shaun, on his jaw in particular, locked on as he snatched off his gloves, spat out his gum-shield and swung with his entire body behind his fist.

“Asshole! It's 2018, you _don't_ say that shit! Is his dick in your fat fuckin' face? Is it in your ass? Is mine?!” Mickey growled, his fist connecting hard against Shaun's jaw, his nose, his ear, and even as Mickey felt the blinding pain of a fist hitting his head and face, he kept hitting, kept yelling through the blood in his mouth. “Is it?!”

“No!” Baker yelled, ducking as Mickey aimed for his nose again, landing a blow to Mickey's ribs as they grappled in the small circle. Obviously Baker wanted a fight and knew what to do to get one.

“Then why fuckin' say that shit, huh? The fuck is wrong with you! Do you _want_ our dicks, Baker? That your fuckin' problem, huh? Louie not noticing you enough to want to bend you over and fuck you? Huh, that it? Some childish fuckin' ribbing like a boy in the park pullin' a girls hair 'cause he fuckin' likes her?” Mickey managed to hit Shaun hard enough to take him down to his knees and he fisted his hands in his jersey and shook him really hard. “Or do you like getting' a good poundin' from time to time, knock your lanky ass down a peg to remind you that you're fuckin' dick? Huh?!”

“No! I shouldn't have fuckin' said it, OK, I shouldn't!”

“Damn fuckin' right, nor doin' none of them shitty moves on him 'cause all you are is a prick, right? No excuse you fuckin' moron, he's your team mate!”

“I'm a jealous little shit, all there is to it Mickey, swear it!” Shaun yelled, blocking his face as Mickey raised his fist again.

“Enough, Mick!” Bart called, skating close enough to catch Mickey's eye.

“No, not until the fucker says he's sorry and swears he's gonna pack in this childish bullshit. Fucking hell Baker, we're a team here man, we don't do this shit, you know that. I don't fuckin' _like_ hitting on my own men, don't make me have to do it again.”

“I know, I know,” Shaun exhaled, calming down even though Mickey had yet to back off. “I'm sorry, both of you, I shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have targeted you Lou.”

“Damn fuckin' right you shouldn't have you fuckin' idiot! The hell did I say to you before you came out here? Did I stutter? I sure as hell know I don't have a fuckin' stutter, deaf aid!” Thompson spat, sliding over the ice with a grip on Kenn's arm to keep from falling over. “Now that you have beaten the shit out of each other and gotten your testosterone levels sorted out a little, get the fuck off my ice and clean yourselves up. Break for lunch in 40, but you two can piss off before I opt to send you back to the resort entirely. Baker, _you_ are eating lunch with _me_.”

Not like he could argue, and it wasn't as though he couldn't do without a respite, Mickey nodded and let go of Shaun's clothing, shaking his hand before collecting his stick, gloves and gum-shield off a very sorry looking Louie. He smiled at him as best he could with a split lip, fist bumped his shoulder and left the rink before he could listen to their coach yelling and barking, Baker following quietly.

“Really am sorry man, had some shit at home before we left and I took it out on Louie when I should have just hit the gym,” Shaun said after they had helped clean one another up with the first aid kit in the changing room, swabs of bloodied cotton and an open bottle of peroxide on the floor between the benches. Mickey waved him off and smiled softly.

“Don't care what's going on at home man, but if you ever say shit like that again, do anything like that again, I promise you now, I'll find you off ice,” he rose his brow and leant forward with his top lip between his teeth, knowing the look oozed threatening promise.

“Understood. Won't be happenin' again, swear Mick,” Shaun said honestly, offering his fist to bump. “We cool?”

“Once Coach has chewed you out, yeah, sure,” Mickey laughed, bumping fists, and stood up to go change out of his heavy kit, getting out of it quick enough that Shaun was still undressing when he got his Nike's on and his coat and ventured outside. The cool mid-morning air hit him and soothed his sore face, ruffling his hair and calming him right down as he went in search of a smokers shelter. He smiled as his hand curled around the box in his pocket and the lighter in the other, silently thanking Louie as he located a plexi-glass shelter hidden in an array of shrubbery and flowers, lighting up as he got to it. He closed his eyes while leaning back against the wall in the corner, zoning out and enjoying the burn in his thighs and lower back.

“I hope the other guy looks worse,” Mickey almost jolted in fright but managed by the skin of his boxers to keep still and hum with acknowledgement. That voice was going to be his undoing because every time he heard it, his skin broke out in goosebumps and his spine tingled like someone hand ran a finger down it.

“You really are a stalker,” he muttered as Ian positioned himself in the other corner, lighting his own cigarette.

“And neither of us should be smoking but hey, life's small pleasures, right?”

“Surrounded by dorks,” Mickey chuckled, eyes still closed as he puffed away, listening to the rustle of Ian's clothes as he moved a little. They stayed quiet for a while, Mickey ignoring the fact that he could feel Ian staring at him the entire time, making his skin burn.

“So, does he?” Ian questioned through an inhale of smoke and Mickey frowned, finally opening his eyes, instantly wondering why the fuck he'd kept them closed at all. Jesus on a bike, the skater looked like he was glowing where he leant with his long legs crossed at the ankle, smoke hazing all around his slicked hair that was held back by a goddamn _hairband_ , a glittery silver thing nestled on the top of his head.

“What?”

“The other guy?” Gallagher prompted with a small smile, watching Mickey as though he wasn't ten feet away, but right next to him.

“Beat him to his knees. So yeah, I guess he looks worse, not that I fuckin' know what I look like, can't see my face Gallagher,” Mickey flicked up an eyebrow and flashed his eyes a little.

“There's a thing called a mirror? Heard of that?”

“Have you, twinkle toes? Seen what you look like?” Mickey snorted as Ian laughed quietly, licking his thumb while he let the cigarette burn in his fingers, narrowing those cerulean eyes of his to keep the smoke from stinging too much.

“Something you find nice to look at?” Ian quipped, levelling Mickey with a challenging look. “I've been skating most of the morning, not as rough as you mind, but still, jumps and splits mess your style a bit, you know?” No, Mickey didn't, and he suddenly wished he hadn't been told that because his mind filled with images of the leggy redhead doing the fucking splits. What he had on wasn't helping at all either; gone were his tracksuit bottoms, and now he was showing off his toned to hell legs in that spray painted USA leotard, from where it was hidden by the hem of his jacket to where they cut off under his white leg-warmers and high converse.

“Jesus,” Mickey breathed as he looked his fill, not giving a flying fuck that Ian was watching him do it so blatantly. He was taking a page out of Louie's book, obvious usually got the point across, didn't it? Ian hummed, a deep sound in his chest that had Mickey looking up quickly to find him grinning, stubbing out his butt in the bin provided. He stood and stretched a little, on purpose most likely, arms above his head with a lazy smile that Mickey knew all too well because damn, stretching felt orgasmic.

“If you're around for a while, I'm doing some routines in about an hour if you fancy coming to watch? You could learn some moves like Louie does, purely educational of course, so bring him along,” the fucker gave Mickey a searing smile and winked as he moved to leave. “If not, maybe find you later, after the ceremony? Hmm. Bye, Mickey.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey swore under his breath as he raised his dead cigarette to his mouth, inhaled the stale flavour while watching Gallagher's backside bounce as he sauntered away. Maybe he would go and watch. Maybe he could learn something. Maybe he would see him after the OC. Maybe he was royally fucked and, as a smile worked its way to his stunned, open mouth, _maybe_ he had found something else that sparked the fire in his belly that usually only a set of skates and hockey stick ignited. “Hey! Where's my tie, asshole?”

Absolute silence greeted him, but he swore he heard a laugh when he strained his ears. _Swore._

 

 


	3. Checking Out Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets to witness the glory that is Ian Gallagher on the ice and gets his wish of not attending the Opening Ceremony, painfully so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of fighting, blood, violence. I, by no means, know the game nor do i know how to skate like a figure skater, but i did research fouls and jumps and combinations. What individuals are capable of with these skills under their belts is down to them, and I've seen ice dancing, they are mental and it's crazy shit, totally crazy. Hats off to them! Checking Out someone on the ice is a move from behind where a player rams another in his blind spot while unaware and unable to defend himself with a full body slam into a barrier or down on the ice - it IS considered a foul whether during play or out of it, and depending severity, the penalty time is down to the referee's judgement based off of the act and possibly the player's behaviour during previous game play. If you don't know any of the songs, check them out (dont ram them!) because they are pretty cool. I just hit shuffle on my own playlist and you got this so... hope you enjoy :) thank you for the continued love!

Mickey waited patiently for the training session to break for lunch, or a snack, if the cooler of sandwiches and water bottles suggested anything. Meagre pickings as far as he was concerned for he longed for a fat, greasy cheeseburger loaded with everything you could put on it without the thing disintegrating into a pile ready to give you a heart attack with one bite. He sat on the grass with his legs folded under him while Louie sat with his stretched out next to him, watching staff milling about with the odd athlete following.

“Hey, Mickey, about earlier, I just wanted to-”

“Louie, _please_ don't fucking apologise man, really. I don't want to hear a word even remotely associated with 'sorry' come out of your beak, all right? It happened, fights happen, shit got fixed, end game. Nobody got hurt past a bruised ego maybe, and not even mine, shit like this is what I do on the ice man, I'm the ass-kicker, no matter who it is I'm defending, it's about keeping the team good, so can it, right?” Mickey said as he waved his hand and bit into his cheese and ham sandwich, frowning as he chewed. It was like stale socks in between pieces of cardboard. No mayo. Bullshit.

“ _Jesus_ bro, I wasn't gonna!” Louie protested through a mouthful of whatever sandwich he had, equally as boring if his scowl said much. “Was going to say thanks, for havin' my back man. Love you, asshole.”

Mickey snorted and stuffed the last quarter of his half of sandwich into his mouth and guzzled water to wash it down before he gagged. “Dork.”

“Yup!” Louie chuckled as he too, inhaled his sad excuse for lunch and downed the bottle in his hand. Mickey burped and cricked his neck, eyeing the massive arena opposite them. “What's so fucking interesting bro? Not managed to keep your eyes off that building. Spiderman scaling it or some shit? Oh! Fuckin – dude, can you _see_ Antman?!”

“Christ Lou,” Mickey snorted, ducking to rush his sniggering into the collar of his jacket before Louie could see how much he was actually laughing at him. The man was a child, a massive, dork of a child, who legitimately believed those kind of people really existed and he always got so excited and fascinated by the prospect of _seeing one_. “They aren't there man.”

“Don't you say that bullshit man, they can hear you, they got super sonic hearing or something, you know?”

“Louie!” Mickey was openly laughing at him now and it made Louie scowl so angrily that the look made Mickey howl, his noise quietening into that wheezing, noise-on-every-inhale kind of laugh that made bruised ribs ache and black eyes water. “They aren't real dude.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mick, they so are!” Louie shoved him and Mickey fell to his side, holding on to the grass to keep from lying completely on his side. “Just because you can't see the fuckers don't mean they aren't legit bro. Like, I don't fuckin' know, like if someone said there was a bottle of Jack in the mini fridge in your bedroom but you never opened it? Right, don't mean it wasn't there just 'cause you never opened the fuckin' door – Hey! _Stop_ laughing asshole!”

“Lou, Lou, Lou _ie_ Jesus, stop man. I'm getting' fresh bruises on my bruises,” Mickey wheezed and sat up, dabbing at his eyes as he breathed out a high pitched noise trying to calm down. “And, you likening fictional superheroes to a bottle of jack in a mini fridge can _also_ be me believing it doesn't exist just because I never opened the fucking fridge man. Jeez.”

“Still doesn't mean it wasn't there to start with just 'cause you never opened it either, so fuck you,” Louie grouched, kicking Mickey hard near his ankle.

“Man, I didn't even know I had a mini fridge, so this argument is null and void Lou, doesn't exist. Can't see it, doesn't exist,” Mickey loved winding Louie up. He didn't believe what he, himself, was saying, he thoroughly agreed with the whole _just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't real_ theory because that shit applied to almost everything, like emotional stuff that messed you up on the inside, and rightfully should leave you bleeding to death on the floor for all to see, but you aren't because you're smiling and walking around like nothing is going on. Can't see the pain, not at all, but it doesn't make it any less real. Mandy proved that theory time and again with her shitty relationships, and so did he, with what he went through as a kid, but those wounds were clean, shiny scars now. It also applied to monsters in the closet when the lights went out, and spiders – they carried AK's, tiny ones, like Antman, so small you can't actually see them, but Mickey _knew_ they had them. It wasn't like he didn't _like_ spiders, he just didn't trust them.

“S'in the wall by the window, looks like a block in some panelling but I noticed that none of the walls have fuckin' panelling and I pressed it and bang, bitch, a mini fridge. And yes, there's a bottle of Jack in there before you fuckin' start, Judge Judy,” Louie shoved his shoulder as Mickey started giggling again and like Louie's effect, his smiles had Louie beaming at him. “Check it out when we get back tonight. Something to take home, yeah?”

“Something to down when I know we don't have to be up before the birds, more like,” Mickey hummed, standing while he kept his eyes in the billowing red flags of the building he knew Ian was in. He mulled over going to watch now he had Louie as a reason to go inside, that and the fact that they had an hour, or until they got a text, as Thompson was grilling Shaun and Roberts – apparently, as he'd been outside calming down, Roberts had commented on how Baker had gotten his ass kicked by someone half his size and Baker had punched him out with a hit to the neck. Bart had moved in and tackled Shaun to the floor and had sat on his shoulders with his hands on the backs of his knees until Thompson had come raging through the locker room like a hurricane bent on destroying the biggest member of his team, ordering them all out until further notice.

Roberts was OK, or so Louie said, and was singing Mickey's praises now because he'd taken a battering in the ice and still managed to down Shaun. Mickey had smiled at Louie's excitement and Seth's enthusiasm about it all, but it wasn't anything to be boosted by, it was what it was, not like he prided himself on how he handled himself. His life had been _beat or be beaten_ before he'd been spotted by a scout, and it was in his back pocket, his hidden arsenal if he had to really use it as most of the time he simply rammed or fought his opponent until they got too tired, like any other player. Baker was a fucking dick though, and Mickey had to square up to shut him down before he got too cocky and fucked their chances. Simple. And he'd do it again if he absolutely had to.

“So, _is it_ an Avenger or is there a reason the arena is so hypnotising?”

“I bumped into Gallagher earlier and he mentioned that he would be doing routines around this kinda time, suggested we go watch and learn or some shit. Like you've done before, you know?” Mickey said, hoping he sounded as vague and nonchalant he possibly could, waving his hand around with a mild frown.

“Ah, like that is it? Yeah, we could learn some fluidity from him. Not exactly swan lake on the ice, us lot, more like cats in boxes. Yeah, lets go watch then bro, 'cause we could learn something no other team knows, maybe? Secret skate weapon. Or just, you know, watch 'cause man, you don't know what you've been a-missing,” Louie wiggled his brows again and Mickey shook his head fondly, making sure to thrown all of the their trash in the bin as they passed, heading right for the arena that held within lyrca and spandex covered figure skaters doing all sorts of moves that left nothing in the depths of Mickey's filthy brain unearthed and alive with vivid detail.

As they walked through the main foyer, they were noticed immediately by some personnel who handed them mini tablets and earphones before smiling and letting them through to the stairwell that lead down to the lower level of the seating, right at the side of the rink. It was freezing that close to the ice without all of his kit on and Mickey quickly zipped his jacket up with a jolt of his body, stuffing his gadget into his pocket when Louie yanked the double doors open, the corridor dimly lit and thumping with heavy bass.

“This is the staff and competitors entrance onto the floor,” Louie almost yelled as the thumping grew louder the closer they got to the other end. “If we come during an event, we will have to go through the fancy ass way with everyone else which blows man, no special treatment unless out of hours, hey?” he yanked on his jacket, hinting at the uniform, and rolled his eyes. Mickey just nodded and braced himself as Louie pulled the door open; instantly he was hit with blaring music and he quickly shoved his earphones in and turned the device on.

**Please Select The Country/Team You Are Observing ...**

Mickey frowned as he followed Louie along the rows of seats, hitting USA when he found it. “The fuck is this?” he shouted when Louie stopped and gestured to what he thought to be perfect seating, a block higher than the rink, but close enough that they could see everyone on the ice perfectly. There were a good amount of men moving around, kind of like a public rink if anything, and Mickey frowned at it all. Nothing special here then.

“It's-” Louie yanked the earbud out of Mickey's ear and shouted over the deafening music, “It's because they'd rather we didn't scream at each other in here and end up either disturbing the harmony shit going on, which is fucking impossible because hello?! But also so we don't miss anything by having to keep turning to one another. They do it in Canada too. If you pick a team, it'll play their track list as they play them, cut offs and selections and everything bro, 'cause if you look at all those guys, they got earphones in too at the moment. You can hear it without distortion and shit, lower volume or higher if you like destroying your ears. It's optional in events, not so much in here right _now_ because it's always so fucking loud bro.”

“No shit!”

“And the thingy also shows you the song playing, 'cause they had some kinda suggestion poll back in 2016 asking if viewers enjoyed the music, wanted to know what it was and for which skater, blah blah. Obviously they did, so now we get to know exactly what they're skating to in case we fangirl the fuck out and want to Spotify that shit or something, relive memories and build fantasies or somethin'. Adds to the experience,” Louie waved his arms out like he was showing a headline fantastically and Mickey nodded, his eyebrows pinched up, and when Louie chuckled and nudged him, Mickey scoffed and fiddled with the volume until it was loud enough for him to feel it in his temples like he felt it rattling through his legs from the actual song playing around the massive arena. The headphones were sweet, noise cancelling things that shut out the fuzzy bass, and it did make the experience better if he was honest. Thank god for musical development – he hated those massive headsets that cancelled out noise, he felt stupid wearing them, so these little earplug ones almost made him piss himself when they had come out.

“Yo! You can pair the devices and use Whatsapp so...” Louie yelled when Mickey pulled the plug from his ear enough to hear him and soon the device was buzzing in his hand, asking to be paired with LouPatoo. He stared incredibly at Louie who avoided looked at him, smirking down at the device in his hands. He laughed outright when MickeyMoo paired with him, kicking Mickey's foot.

_LouPatoo: Fucking dork :D_

Mickey chuckled and sat back in his seat, content to watch the skaters whiz around while their coaches, male and female, stood still on the ice, barking commands or waving their arms around like puppets. It was a while before much happened, and Mickey had found his eyes drawn to at least five sparkly men while he absent-mindedly bobbed his head to the beat, none of which were tall redheads, and that particular one was absent, as was Max and Jason. When all of the men stopped and shook themselves out, Mickey's device buzzed in his fingers, and he looked down at it.

**Fuse ODG feat. Sean Paul – Dangerous Love**

_LouPatoo: Hey, they're clearing out now. Time for Uncle Sam to come play for a bit. Prepare thyself brother, you are going to weep like a fucking bitch._

Mickey glanced at Louie and closed his eyes for a second, smiling at his friend with his hand over his heart, imitating a fainting damsel, or a swooning one, he couldn't quite tell if it was one or the other or a combination. The music changed as the skaters slowly left the ice, gathering up cones and barriers as they went, so Mickey found himself moving his head side to side gently to _shut up and dance_ , something he'd not heard recently and liked the fact that the playlist seemed to be nothing current, so far anyway, and he liked that because all the radio's played lately was bullshit _samey-same_ crap he could seriously do without. He liked the older songs. It would change soon, no doubt, once USA came out and kicked theirs off. Mickey looked around when he noticed a fair amount of people leaving, not that many were in the stalls to begin with, but it still had him feeling a touch jumpy.

_MickeyMoo: We allowed to stay Lou?_

_LouPatoo: Yeah. They saw our kit bro, know we aren't just anybody. They know who's on site and shit, chill out man. All good._

_MickeyMoo: Don't wanna get fucking arrested or something dude, seriously._

_LouPatoo: Drama queen! Watch the fucking ice :P_

**Current Playlist – USA.  
** **Limp Bizkit - Rollin' (Air Raid Vehicle)**

“Holy shit,” Mickey chuckled as the song started in his ears, looking up to see the skaters leave through a set of doors on the opposite side, away from the rink, and three sift through the bodies on their way towards it. Max and Jason moved to deposit bags on the floor while Ian rolled his head on his neck and let Jason take his bag, stretching his arms over his chest, pulling the elbows as he twisted his body. He was in his full tracksuit and still he had Mickey's attention entirely focussed on him, even with half of his body hidden behind the barrier wall of the rink. Max sat down and disappeared from view while Jason grabbed Ian around the waist and held on to him, Ian doing the same, as they stood side by side and hooked their legs up on the wall to really stretch, something that had Mickey fighting to keep his mouth shut over. They kept at it for a minute or two, laughing at they forced each other to bend over their own leg until it hurt, until they swapped legs and started over. Louie was trying to be Fred Durst in his seat, trying to 'roll' with his hood up and his body slouched, texting away with one hand.

_LouPatoo: Sometimes they do little skate battles to warm up before either of them has the ice to themselves for 20 mins, kinda to see who goes first if nobody can decide. Did it in Canada, and most anywhere else I've watched. It's awesome bro. Man, wish I could get my leg that fuckin' high, am I right?_

_MickeyMoo: You're right. Jesus. He said earlier he'd been on the ice all morning, guessing like the guys before, yeah, so why the fuck they doing this ballerina shit?_

_LouPatoo: can never be too stretched I guess, not doing what they do anyways bro. We warm up for over an hour, just in different ways a'ight. Oh this my jam.  
_ **LMFAO – Party Rock Anthem.**

Mickey refused to think too hard on the _can never be too stretched_ part of Louie's text because hell, if he went anywhere with that thought train, he'd have a problem. Instead, he focussed on Louie shaking himself in his seat like he was clubbing, his feet jumping along the floor, fists up and rocking everywhere. He shook his head with mock disgust and took his eyes back to Gallagher who was just out of sight, his red head moving around behind the wall. It took a minute before he stood back up, looking even taller, and then it got a little too hot for Mickey where he sat, ignoring Louie partying next to him, because Ian began removing his jacket and yanked his track bottoms off like some kind of stripper – they just gave way and flew off – and then the giant was in all of his blue lycra glory, gingerly walking to the gate on his blades, swinging his arms in and out from his chest, his arms bulging with every tight pull backwards, flexing his shoulder blades into touching. Mickey knew that stretch, he did it all the time, but seeing it on Gallagher in that leotard? Blood pressure raising visuals.

Ian paused before he got to the opening in the wall and Mickey found himself edging forward on his seat for the big reveal as he had yet to see Ian's full body in this thing. Jason caught up and got onto the ice first, in a similar state of dress, though his getup wasn't blue with designs, but deep red with blue legs and white squares representing the stars from his ankles up to his hips. If the guy wasn't so lean, Mickey might have laughed at his expense because who the fuck designed that? But then again, none of these skaters looked remotely funny in what they wore to him, because he appreciated what the glorious article of clothing gave him on a plate. When Ian stepped through the gate, one long, muscled leg after the other, tapering up to a slim waist and a solid trunk with every ab and peck outlined under the sleek design, Mickey's mouth fell open and he felt Louie nudge his elbow. His device buzzed.

_LouPatoo: what did I say about him? A fucking dream, bro. Even I, skirt chasing Louie Fael, can fucking appreesh THAT image. Jesus. These 'tards leave fuck all to the imagination bro, like, thank god they wear cups LOL Ian is hot, but I don't wanna legit see his junk, a'ight, not like you would anyways ;)_

Mickey nodded rather than answer and dared not turn around and acknowledge his friend because he knew for sure Louie was openly grinning like a smug fucker and would only tease him about how much he was staring, like Oliver looking through a window to the porridge factory or some shit. There was nothing he could do to stop himself and it wasn't like he couldn't drop someone if they commented on his obviousness. As Ian glided around one end of the rink, Jason mimicked at the other end, stretching and wriggling until they were swaying along to the middle where they stopped with feet separating them. Jason turned and made some kind of motion in the air and the song switched a second later, making both Mickey, who was too distracted, and Louie, who was busy trying to dougie, jump in their seats while both Ian and Jason began to shove each other playfully like they were trying to square off.

**Run D.M.C – It's Tricky (DJ Fresh Remix)  
** _MickeyMoo: this the battle? Max not do this? Is this that goddamn Ninja Turtles music from 2015/16?!_

_LouPatoo: FUCKING YES IT IS OMG so exicted rn :D :D :D nah, just these two. Besties. You gotta trust a dude with blades on his feet, yo. Ian might like Max, but he don't trust him. Like me and you VS me and Seth. OMG LOOK!Ninja Skaters now bb :P_

Once they had shoved each other enough and the beat kicked right in, Jason began to body pop and jump across the ice on his toes like he was doing some kind of fast paced Riverdance, the one thing Mickey knew he had gotten himself a name for doing at events, and Ian merely scoffed and folded his arms, looking really unimpressed by it all. When the bridge kicked in, Jason was stopped by Ian spreading his legs and spinning on the spot quickly until he pulled his feet together and looked like he was trying to dougie, something Louie started jumping about in his seat over, then rocking back on one foot, then the other with jerking hand movements and his hips popping side to side like he was a platform dancer. Mickey couldn't look away even if Louie fell out of his seat and knocked his teeth out. They were fucking having a dance battle on an ice rink, like it was nothing more than something hilarious at a house party. Mickey worried about possible break dancing because that shit was stupid and dangerous under these circumstances.

When the chorus kicked in, neither waited to see what the other had to deliver, and simply set off to the opposite ends of the rink at high speed, coordinated with spins every now, a leg up, a kick, and then to Mickey's surprise, synchronised double Lutz despite being at opposing ends. It was odd too watch two men doing it, but as they were as far from each other as possible, it was also mesmerizing to see for Mickey, and as they did a triple Salchow, Mickey almost lost it with the way Ian came out of the jump smoothly, grinning happily with his execution. They both began body popping, jumping along the ice, _running_ – all of it high energy and extremely entertaining to watch, battling it out. To Jason's roundhouse kick with added flare from his hands without tipping his balance, Ian did a scissor kick that had him come up off the ice real high, having to tip his head back to avoid hitting his face with his blade and as he did so, his arms flew out. To Ian's double toe, Jason did a triple toe. To Jason's perfectly balanced spin, Ian did an upright one with one hand in the air while the other held his hip, spinning so fast he became a blue torch and his hairband flew across the ice. Mickey knew from TV that moving arms or hands in a spin that quick upped the difficulty level, so his eyebrows shot up, and then Ian was power sliding across the ice with his knees wide and his back arched and Mickey knew his brows had gone into orbit. Jason conceded before the song came to it's end and Louie was up out of his seat instantly, yelling and jumping around. Mickey was full on gaping, almost wondering if his jaw had come unhinged, eyes wide and drying from not blinking.

“Oh my god! Oh my fuckin' God, s _ick_ man!” he yelled, punching the air and doubling over and looking for all intents and purpose like a fucking hyperactive lunatic gang member back in Southside, witnessing a _sick burn brah!_ Or someone getting a smacking off their mom for back chatting her with a little too much lip.

Ian got up as Jason shook his hand, hugged him and then left the rink with a bow to all who were watching, joining Max on the bench to eat something and plug his headphones in. Ian shook out his arms and legs as he skated leisurely around the rink, waving at Louie as he passed their side, grinning like a Cheshire Cat when he spotted Mickey leaning on his knees with a stunned expression. He'd managed to gather enough of his coherency together to shut his mouth before Gallagher saw, and he tried to smile at him, but his facial muscles had numbed with awestruck shock. He had watched figure skaters before, loads of times, but that was something else, and so close as well, able to see their bodies flex and bend like that, the power behind some of those moves, well, he had a whole new level of admiration for them. What the hell else was he going to do if _that_ was just playing around? Mickey felt his belly tickle.

_LouPatoo: that was a-fucking-mazing. I'm in love with them. Jesus, don't let me near them, I won't be able to stop myself from sucking face or grabbing ass cheeks or getting in a breast massage. Fuck._

_MickeyMoo: fucking calm yourself, Jesus._

Mickey found himself laughing as he looked at Louie who was now sitting back down, curled up with his thumb between his teeth, exaggerating, or so he hoped, his self-concern. The music was off for a while as Ian got comfortable and did a few more jumps around the rink, getting acquainted with all of the space he had to himself, and Mickey and Louie sat and watched quietly, eyes on him constantly. Ian searched out the hairband and chucked it over the wall where his coach stood, watching him with a fond smile on her face, and when he made a gesture with his wrist, she pulled out a tablet and tapped it while he positioned himself centre ice. Both Mickey and Louie looked down as their devices buzzed.

**Current Playlist - Ian Gallagher, USA  
Philip George – I Wish That You Were Mine**

Mickey felt like he was in some kind of club and turned the volume up a little more as Ian immediately began dancing, not skating at all, using his blades like they weren't even there and that he wasn't on ice, swaying his hips and side stepping, turning in circles with his arms up and out. He was so into the beat that he managed to cover a good section of ice just by dancing as he was, pumping his hips while he swung his arms around, grabbing at his neck and hair and Mickey felt a little like he was some kind of voyeur, seeing him lose himself entirely. His collar started to feel all too tight around his throat and he shivered, his skin breaking out into goosebumps again.

_MickeyMoo: this normal??????_

_LouPatoo: Yep. Loosens the body right out Jason said once. Think they just like fuckin' dancing tbh any excuse not to have to put on the classical shit._

Mickey turned his mouth down and bobbed his head, settling the device back in his lap as Ian started to skate backwards slowly, his hips still swaying rhythmically even as he widened his knees so that he was jutting his ass out to get a good curve on his glide. His thighs tightened as he began picking up speed, using them to move his entire pose, and as he went past where Mickey and Louie sat like a pair of transfixed dogs, he lifted one leg up to hold the ankle by the other knee, arms out front for a second before they went to his throat and he dugs his fingers in so hard Mickey could see where his skin went white under the pressure. Ian's eyes were shut and he was biting his damn lip and Mickey was thankful that the music was deafening in the arena because he groaned low in his throat, gripping his device a little tight. Jesus. Mickey kind of wanted to regret coming in here at all, because he sure as hell couldn't leave now, and the fucker hadn't even done much yet, but he couldn't because the sight he was seeing was glorious.

Neither Jason or Max were paying Ian any attention, lazing with their lunches on the side while reading or something, heads down. The music stopped and Ian moved to centre ice again, placing himself in a stance where he had his legs locked together and one arm out and up, his hand lax with one finger pointing down, the other wrapped around his back. He gave a nod and dropped his chin to his chest and Mickey shuffled to the edge of his seat, close to falling off it completely, but his tiptoes were rigid and his calves were burning they were so tense. Louie gave up sitting in his seat and got to his knees, clutching the back of the seat in front of him – this was going to be good then, if Louie was kneeling and looking like he did when Loki fell through the abyss. Emotional overloads were the only things that sent Fael to his knees, that and a hard hit, but as there weren't punches being thrown, Mickey popped his eyebrow and took a deep breath.

**Gabrielle Alpin – The Power Of Love**

Mickey swallowed. He knew this song, not a song he listened to often, but he had a soft spot for it since he'd heard it on the music channel years ago. He'd been cleaning his living room and it had hit him in the chest so hard that he'd dropped the rag he'd been dusting with and had just sat on the floor, feeling raw as he watched the rain run down the windows. He adored it, but it hurt him for some reason, it was just one of those. It took a few moments before Ian gave another nod, having adjusted his arms a little, and the music started clear in Mickey's ears and again, he found himself almost sinking to the floor with how it effected him. And now he was going to watch a figure skater do a routine to it, _Ian Gallagher_ do a routine. Louie gripped the seat and turned to give Mickey a pained look for a second before he turned back to Ian, watching him move his arm down and around softly, the other going up.

He moved on the spot, bending this way and that, fluid and serene like a ballet dancer, moving in a figure of eight until the chorus came in and he kicked off into a wide legged turn, spinning lightly, his face as agonised as Mickey's chest felt, spinning out along the ice, gliding large swaying lines. He lifted his knee up again, bending backwards in an arch, and then going the opposite way so his leg came up towards his crown. Then he was off, skating smoothly backwards as the music picked up a little, touching his chest and collar, everywhere, moving constantly, and Mickey wanted to fucking cry with how effortless he looked, his lines so clean and his body conveying the pain he was trying to portray. Mickey was struck on how the just didn't seem to still at any point. When the chorus eased in again, Ian threw his leg out in a three turn before launching into a triple Salchow, a double toe loop, coming out smooth, swaying lines again as he flew to the other end of the rink with never ending arm movements, twists and turns, and landed a double Lutz as the chorus eased out. He skated to the middle of the rink, his arms wide and his head high, hair flickering around his face, until he got back to the centre where he threw himself into a double Axel without preamble, easing out backwards, scissor kicking his legs to get a spin going, his leg out straight while he moved his arm, ducking down to grip his ankle and curl his leg around to pick up speed, and then he stood slowly, lifting his leg up until he was holding it at his crown just as the bass hit with the third chorus, and Mickey wobbled on his seat edge because _Christ_ , that bend and the power in his balancing leg. Louie hadn't moved once, so enraptured by him.

“Jesus fucking Christ Ian,” he mumbled, watching him do another set of three jumps and a loop as he flew past them and then he was slowing down, still moving his limbs like they were made of ribbon, and stopped in a pose that told of a man who was heartbroken, gripping his heart and hiding his face in his other hand. Immediately he moved and shook himself out again, not looking at anyone, and nobody in the arena applauded him on that, there were all too stunned. Louie slowly moved and sat back in his seat, his eyes red and Mickey swallowed, declining to say or do anything because he felt like, if he spoke, he'd shattered what he'd just witnessed and he blub like a baby. He pulled the earphones out to readjust and was glad he did, because Ian spoke.

“Something faster, please? Feel a little emotional,” Ian called out, flexing his hands and rolling his head and Mickey melted a little at the sound of his voice, raw and deep and he felt a little bad for feeling a flash of heat after what he'd just seen. That quickly went away as the fiery skater bent forward to touch his toes with a groan.

“You got it, honey!” his coach shouted. “Was beautiful, but work on your jumps and exits.”

**Sigala – Easy Love**

“Oh _this_ is a fucking tune! I'm lovin' your musical taste baby! ” Louie whooped and finally Ian looked up, smirking at Louie, winking at Mickey when he caught his eye, motioning for him to replace his earphones. Ian started running on his picks and then moved like lightning around the rink, partying his ass off as he went around, jumps here and there, nothing in routine, just random to nail them, and he kept at his hip thrusting, body-rolling dancing until the chorus really kicked in – then, with speed as he came around backwards, he jumped up high as he passed, twisted around and did the splits _perfectly_ in the air. In front of Mickey's stunned face. The redhead was on the other side of the rink before Mickey blinked, fisting his hair and into his groove completely, thoroughly enjoying the music and whatever it was that he was doing, pointing up to Louie where he hopped and moved around in his own little clubbing daze. Mickey found himself smiling something wicked, his cheeks hurting and his body moving a little without thought, Ian's infectious enjoyment ruining him. Jason was also up out of his seat and jamming back and forth along the wall, laughing with Ian, and then Max pumped his fists and smiled, getting up to join in.

_LouPatoo: motherfucker, that was for you, you know that right? Daaaaaaaaaayum!_

Mickey flushed red hot and flipped Louie his finger so hard the knuckle popped but all Louie did was grin and pump his fingers, 1, 2 ,3 before turning around on the spot. Ian was grinning, the bastard, as he humped and punched the air, mouthing the words _ABC is easy, it's like counting up to three! Sing a simple melody, that's how easy love can be!_ before coming back around and doing the splits, _again_ , only with his back to Mickey this time. Mickey almost bemoaned not having the time to really appreciate the view, as he shot off again, so he settled for looking like nothing bothered him even while his device blew up a storm in his lap and Ian skated around like he owned the place.

Mickey swallowed and watched Ian closely as the song changed again, and when he heard it, and saw Ian's face morph into something feral when he stopped and lifted his gaze at Mickey. He ran his hands up his sides and started rolling his waist slowly, biting his lip and Mickey was up out of his seat and running for the doors. He needed air, he needed to get away from him, he needed to be locked in his room for an hour with the whole thing on loop with his hand and some lotion. It had been many years since anyone had had this kind off effect on him, and it wasn't this intense before either, and it was overwhelming his sensory system, everything alight and burning or tingling and his heart was rampant in his chest. Ian hadn't even been within feet of him, touching him, or even alone with him. He wanted to touch Ian, God did he want to touch that man. Mickey was panting, so he pulled out his device as he approached the doors. He prayed that Louie wasn't following him.

_LouPatoo: Holy fuck Mickey!_  
_LouPatoo: Mickey, he wants you. Seriously man, he doesn't show off like this. Never seen him do this kinda stuff._  
_LouPatoo: BRO! AGAIN! SPLITS! Oh man, oh man, oh man, s'like watchin' you open that PS:V all over again, the wingman excitement I am experiencing here just obscene, swear it._  
_LouPatoo: ARE YOU SEEING THE HIP GAME HE HAS GOIN' ON?! ...and YOU have his attention. Damn Mickey ;D Tronto bro, jump on it, jump on it!  
_ **Alannah Myles – Black Velvet.**

Mickey ignored all of the messages and quickly typed, avoiding getting smacked in the mouth with the doors.

_MickeyMoo: Don't follow me. Please, not for at least 10._

He shot the message off as he ran down the corridor and out out of the main doors, dodging staff and skaters in his quest to get outside without anyone seeing the bulge in the front of his tracksuit bottoms, hoping that holding his device low would be enough to hide it.

_LouPatoo: Say no more, bro ;) oh, Red looks real confused man. Asking after you and shit... He's so gonna find you ;D You can't hide from that heat seeker. Nope. I always thought that song was sexy. Emosh rollercoaster or fucking w-h-a-t!_

Fucking was and Mickey now associated that song with Ian Gallagher and his goddamn leotard. “Alannah Myles, fucking me over like that, such a bitch,” Mickey moaned to himself when he found the smokers shelter empty, tucking himself in the corner again with a tight grip on his dick while his other held fast around his throat, feeling the heat and rabbiting of his pulse. To try and calm himself, he began humming and pulled out a smoke, only to curse loudly when he realised he was humming that song, and he lit his cigarette angrily.

“Calm down, chill, s'all good, we're good here, nothin' we can't just... temper down,” he said to himself, putting his hands out as if he was standing before himself, trying to pacify his mood, knowing he would look pretty creepy if anyone popped into the shelter. There was no way he could face the man now, not after that, and he wasn't even sure he could even continue with his practise either. He felt both turned on to high heaven and drop dead tired and it pissed him off. The more annoyed he got about it all, the quicker his erection flagged, though by the time it had gone down and his smoke was stubbed out, all Mickey felt was cheated and like he'd been kneed in the balls and his pulse still hadn't eased right down, the odd beat making him feel sickly.

**FlameOn wishes to pair with your device  
** **Current Playlist – Jason Brown, USA**

“ _Fuck_ , fuck fucking fuck!” Mickey rubbed his hand down his face and hit accept, looking around and over the frosted band in the glass to see if Gallagher was out there, stalking him some more. He wasn't.

**Justin Bieber – Sorry  
** _FlameOn: it is too late to say I'm sorry now? (8) hey, you watched. Hope you got something from that, moves wise, for Hockey of course? Jason is better though. Don't forget to turn the device back in before you leave the site. See you at the OC. Nice username, Moo ;)_

_MickeyMoo: fuck you. Ever use that on me and I'll break your knees, right? BTW you are sublime. Hope you know that, prolly get told like, always, cos why the fuck not, eh? Twinkle toes done good. Louie looked like his favourite Marvel man was dying or some shit, seriously broke him. Yep. Laters flag boy._

_FlameOn: sublime? Never heard that before. Personally, could have been much better, I've been on my feet all day, kinda tired and stuff, makes for sloppy turns and edgy jumps, but, Thank you. Really. Maybe I'll watch you at some point? See how hard you can ram a fella, eh?_

Mickey flushed at that, reading too far into it and coughed into his fist as he tried to think of response.

_MickeyMoo: Better? You serious...If that was sloppy, then seeing what you can really do is gonna knock us dead. Yeh, come watch the Hockey, might learn how to take down a motherfucker who fancies himself a go at your medal. Won't play no Beiber for you though, jesus. H._

_FlameOn: Fuck off. My coach controls the music and it's Jason on the ice now, not yours truly, asshat. Will knock you off your feet, alright ;) hope to see you later, Moo._

“Asshole,” Mickey laughed as Louie started yelling his name. “Yes, Louisiana?” He sang out, trying to control his mind after that mini conversation, caging it for when he wasn't about to be in close quarters with over twenty other men he considered his friends.

“Thompson wants us back inside, this is your ten minute warning Mikhaylo. He says smoke, 'cause if you come back inside all riled up or some shit, he will drop kick you into last year,” Louie chuckled as he approached the shelter and leaned in the archway. “You good bro?”

“Yeah, yeah, all good Louie,” Mickey smiled around a new cigarette and Louie grinned, popping an eyebrow. Mickey stopped trying to light the thing and pointed at his friend sternly, “Don't you speak.”

“Promise I won't breathe a word. But, so you know, I got a little turned on too-”

“I said don't Louie, Jesus,” Mickey choked on his inhale as Louie gave him a dirty smile. “I'm serious man, don't start that up. I don't want to know what he does to your cock, nor do I wanna get thinkin' about him before I go back into the arena to play fucking hockey man, I can't. They'll rib me and I'll beat on someone and then come after your lilly ass for it.”

Mickey's threat was light but Louie knew he meant it and put his hands up in surrender, licking his thumb while he waited for Mickey to smoke his stresses away.

“What did you think though?” Louie asked carefully, watching Mickey inhale and hold it in longer than required, eyeing him back with suspicion.

“He's good,” Mickey answered as he blew out the smoke and Louie smiled with a bob of his head.

“Yeah, _real_ good right?”

“Could say that.”

“Course you could, I mean, wasn't like either of us could tear our damn eyes off of him for a second. C'mon assface, Hockey to play,” Mickey smiled as he stubbed out the butt and motioned for Louie to lead on, wiping his device clear as he walked and happily handed it over to the staff in the foyer of the Hockey arena, ready to hash it out some more, with added blue balled frustration piled on top of his already pissed off attitude where his team was concerned after this morning.

“You come near me again and I'll ram you _through_ the fuckin' wall, hear me?” Mickey growled as his opponent skidded past him, readying for the whistle again. The asshole just smirked and Mickey licked his gum-shield into place with a nasty look. Thompson had arranged a 'friendly' against Great Britain and so far, non of it had been friendly in the least and it had been going for the last two hours; rotations made, penalties getting harsher, and Mickey felt his mood turning into something real dark. He'd been benched twice during rotation and boxed for taking out his current ghost with a full bodied slam into the barrier when he'd tried to hook Hollander's knee. Milo had moved off, but still tipped, and Mickey had seethed.

“You're like a Pitbull, only good for biting and baiting, useless for everything else, fucktard,” Johnston, or so his shirt said, sneered while they waited for the blow.

“I'm more like a fucking Doberman, Michael Cane, swift, fast and lethal when tested so c'mon tough guy, push it, find out just what kind of damn bite I got,” he hissed, hating that he had a face guard on his helmet, but it was proper play, not something in-team. The guy was massive, Baker sized in height with Isaacs' width, more like a damn Pitbull than Mickey was. Regardless of his advantage over Mickey, he wasn't in the least bit intimidated, if anything, he was looking for a reason to take the bastard down and knock his other front tooth down his throat. When the whistle came, Mickey growled through his teeth and set off on the offence, chasing down anyone who tried to get in the way of Louie or Roberts when they had the puck. He was constantly aware of his shadow as he ducked and slipped past all of the other players, narrowly missing getting caught up when Kenn guided a GB player towards the wall for trying to hook Louie, leaving the way clear for Louie to pass to Roberts and net the puck.

“Hell yeah!” Thompson cheered, punching the air with a smile so bright in the face of the GB coach that the guy turned and sat down with a pout. The whistle went again and Mickey took in a deep breath, feeling real sluggish and tired after the days playing, and took off quickly. Getting into 'the zone' was easy for him though, and he played perfectly until he felt himself drifting out of his own head for a split second, a second that cost him as Louie got tackled into the wall with a shout, instantly starting a fight that stopped the game, and Mickey's ghost saw it as a chance to play dirty, slamming Mickey hard into the wall from behind while he was idle, using his blind spot. Instantly his knees went and he dropped his stick in favour of clawing his gloves for something to hold into, spitting out the bloodied shield in his mouth, trying to get air into his lungs as a whistle screeched out.

“Bite that, _Michael_ -”

“Mikhaylo, fuckwit! _Mother of God_ , you made of steel or some shit?!” Mickey coughed, agony flashing through him.

“What in the name of fuckin' Hades was that bullshit?” Thompson roared.

“Foul! Foul against Milkovich. Johnston, team GB, take yourself off ice immediately. Penalty of five minutes for checking from behind whilst out of play,” one of the referees yelled, his stance on the matter immovable as the large player sulked his way off, swearing and shoving any USA players away when they charged at him with insults and rage. “Coaches Ryder and Thompson, I suggest you discuss whether or not you want to play on with this 'friendly' of yours,” the players on the bench, on either team, seemed to be in agreement with the severity of the foul, yelling or cussing at Johnston as he settled into his box and dropped his head while the referees grouped up and chatted amongst themselves.

“Fucking idiot!” an English shout.

“Asshat, come out here and fucking play dirty with me!” Milo thumped his chest and crooked his fingers.

“Fuck _sake_ Johnston, why do you do this bullshit? What the fuck son?!” another English yell.

“C'mon baby, try me out for size, I'll ram you good and hard, just how you like it,” Shaun leered with a wink, making most of the men laugh and Johnston hide in shame. Mickey tried to laugh but he found himself wincing as his ribs twinged with every short breath he took, and he slid down the wall to his knees, pulling off his helmet so he could spit the blood out of his mouth. The force of the shove had dislodged his gum-shield and he'd clacked his teeth hard, catching his cheek and tongue and had winded him good, his whole body aching from it.

“Yo, Mickey, you OK?” Bart asked as he skidded up next to him, frowning at the blood on his chin and on the ice. “You need to go off. Get up. Need the stretcher?”

“M'ok dude, just bit through my tongue,” Mickey tried to reassure him as he made to stand up, but he wobbled and slipped and ended up banging his chin off the ice. “Ugh, _fuck!_ ” his teeth clacked painfully and his lip reopened and he wondered if his nose was bleeding too because his whole face hurt and felt far too sticky-wet.

“Seth, c'mere a sec and help me get Mick up before he knocks himself out, eh?” Bart laughed to lighten the mood while Mickey spat out more blood and groaned as pain bloomed through his face and head. He felt two pairs of hands hook under his armpits and haul him up, pulling him towards the gate where Thompson was going out of his mind with rage, spitting and swearing a row with the other coach, who looked extremely pissed off, but not because of the abuse he was getting shot with.

“I'm calling time on this,” the bloke shouted, his accent strong and odd to Mickey's buzzing ears as he stumbled onto the soft floor and slid down into the nearest seat, not protesting as Seth knelt to put the guards on his blades, or when Senlintsky tipped his head back and held a wad of tissue to his top lip and nose. “Get that insolent _fuck_ out of my sight. Look, Joe, I can't apologise to you anymore than I have, but you got my word that I'll deal with him. Keep your boys off his back, they won't be needed in the face of what mine are capable of, _after_ what I'm going to serve him. He's a liability and, well, I'll sort it. Hey, Milkovich, right?”

“Yuh,” Mickey grunted, barely able to sound it out with his head tipped back and Bart cleaning him with sanitized wipes.

“Don't take him as a reference for my team, alright? He's a dick. I'll sort him out, you have my word. I just, well, I'm really sorry, he shouldn't have done that, I don't train them like that – Get in that locker room! Don't you dare try and talk your way out of this! Move it along, wankstain,” the English coach faded off as he stormed away, presumably after Johnston, but Mickey only sighed and blearily focussed on someone checking his legs over for anything sinister. He knew they were fine, but it felt like a small massage so he kept quiet. Small victories and all of that.

“Think you'll live there Mick, nothing cut or broken,” Seth smiled as he stood up, jostling out of sight with the rest of their team as they left the ice, all of them patting or touching Mickey's arm as they huddled by in a show of support and to make sure that he was actually OK and breathing.

“Think I chipped a fuckin' tooth.”

“That'll be the slip you took, Mick, you'd taken your gum shield out. Shit happens when you take it out, you know this,” Bart chuckled, ducking the swing Mickey weakly took.

“Was gonna drown in blood if I didn't, dick face. Didn't take it out, he hit me so hard it dislodged in my fuckin' mouth, _oh god,_ ” Mickey groaned as waves of pain radiated along his jaw.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Louie whispered when he appeared, his face a little swollen from a landed punch to his cheek, his hair a state and his eyes glassy. Mickey waved a little, a small thing to tell Louie to sit down next to him and to not cry over this. He wasn't busted up bad or being carted off on a stretcher or cut by a blade, just sore and dopey from exhaustion. “You good? You know, he rammed you _hard_ bro, wanted to kick his ass but Roberts was kinda holding me up by the collar for being 'a little bitch who starts fights'. Can't argue with that, eh? Need anything?”

“Jack and some ice, little bitch,” Mickey smiled as Bart took the bloodied tissues away and opened up the first aid kit Thompson appeared with. Louie snorted and nudged him, his worried expression melting away.

His coach crouched in front of him and grabbed his knee, “Hah, you know what kid? I was expecting a KO to be called after that, what an asshole. Was like watching a duckling getting flattened by a horse. You won't be going to the Ceremony tonight, not busted up like this. You get a night in with Jack, but don't go hard on it, be sensible and get some rest. We got a day before the first game against Italy, and to be fair to you, you'll be in my ear on the bench, oh yeah, not getting out of practise kid. Don't care if you're throwing up, I'll find a bucket and some mints. You know you don't skip out if you aren't in the hospital.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Mickey gave him a weak salute and hissed as peroxide hit his lip for the second time that day. Thompson got up and left, Louie following when he tipped his head. “You stayin'?”

“Yeah Mick,” Bart mumbled, intent on fixing his face up and cleaning away the mess. “Roughed you up so I gotta buff out the scratches, right?”

“I'm fine now, promise,” Mickey said softly, jolting his face away when Bart pressed hard on a tender spot near his ear. “Fuck was that?”

“The guard on the helmet got caved in a bit, cut your cheek. Nothing bad, but a good bruise man. You look terrible Mick, so pale and busted. You're tired. You swore you'd tell me if you felt-”

“Hey, I was fine,” Mickey cut in sharply, his stare hot and sure. “The fucker came out of nowhere and took me out man, the hell am I supposed to defend myself when he checks me like that? Yeah, was feelin' tired, and if that hadn't happened, I would've benched. Don't think I was hidin' it Bart, that ain't fair,” Mickey felt his hackles go up and moved away from Bart's probing fingers and made to stand up angrily, shoving away when Bart tried to pull him back down.

“Mickey, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to dig you. Shit, would you sit back down for goodness sake. You gotta have some sugar before you go anywhere, or you'll pass the fuck out man. I wasn't insinuating shit – Mick? Mickey, you've gone white, sit down. Mickey!” Mickey frowned as he felt his blood drain into his feet and his body ignite like lighter fluid on dry wood, Bart's voice slow and far away, like music through the wall of the arena Ian danced in, but the panic was loud as his axis tipped and he fell forward over the seats in front of him, hitting the wall of the rink with a bang against his shoulders that he felt vibrate _everywhere_. “Fuck, oh _shit_ , Mick- Coach! _Louie_! Ay, Mick's down!” 

Mickey managed to push himself up onto his knees and turn to sit back against the wall, moaning in pain the entire time, “The fuck kinda day is this? Who'd I piss off in my last life, huh? Need somethin' strong Bart, this hurts man, fuckin – shit, bucket. I need a bucket!”

“You gonna pass out on me or hurl first?” Bart asked and Mickey shook his head, nodded his head and clamped his hand over his mouth, breathing slowly to fend off the nausea and keep his mouth from flooding with spit.

“What the?! Fael get that bucket, Milo, go fetch the medic. Jesus, Bart stop smothering him,” Thompson's voice ordered and soon there was a bucket between Mickey's knees and his gut emptied, his nose stung and his head split open from the banging hammers inside it. Some guys in yellow came running through some point after his stomach stopped raging and he dazedly listened to them asking questions he could answer, checked his pupils and all of the necessary things before assuring him he was fine, busted up, but fine. Told him he was lucky to have curled in on himself when he tipped otherwise he might have damaged his neck or head with the weight of his body and kit behind him.

The journey back to the resort was a daze for Mickey, pilled up on some seriously powerful prescription drugs; painkillers, anti-sickness and just plain old sleep deprivation. He'd been advised not to go to sleep for a few hours even though he'd not hit his head, but to be on the safe side, he'd agreed and kept reiterating his name, the date, where he was, what he played, where he lived, who he knew, all of that to keep his friends from freaking the fuck out every time he went too quite or dopey. He bitched about how cold it was once Louie had loaded him into a cart, watching the shock of the other people walking around when they caught sight of the mess that was his face. The freezing chill soothed his skin though, and he missed it once he was on his floor and staring at the door to his room, narrowing his sore eyes to keep the red lights out.

“Who's staying with him now?” Seth asked and Mickey put his hand up, waving it back and forth. Bart and Seth stood behind them, looking mildly worried, but more amused at the way Mickey behaved post-beatdown. He wobbled into his room and beelined for the sofa that had his name written all over it, careful to keep his bloody clothing away from the lighter sections of colour. He needed to find out who did laundry in this place and take a hot bath.

“None of you are, one of you later, we talked about this. I'll stay awake, don't worry, I remember what the medic said. I ain't concussed, we know that, just got jelly legs. Call me or something, every ten fuckin' seconds if it makes you happy, FaceTime me, whatever. You don't miss out because I got walloped by a juggernaut,” Mickey's tone booked no room argument as he held his head and rubbed the eye that wasn't swollen and bruised. “I'll be fine. Had way worse, still here ain't I? Just a bit dopey but a coffee will wake me up. You know I get my kicks from the golden liquid of the Gods.”

“Nerd. Hey, looks like you got your wish of stayin' in to watch the OC on the TV. I'll check in with you before I go, bro. No jerkin' the gherkin, need the blood in this head,” Louie kissed his crown and moved out of the way quickly, avoiding the swipe. “Coffee is _brown_ , numbnuts, though the cappuccino is good man,” Louie fired with a grin as he shut the door. It took Mickey five minutes to locate the coffee machine and fire it up with some fancy cappuccino capsule inside. Waiting for it to finish, he found a bag of salted pretzels in a cupboard that triggered a warm smile; the packet was so blue and shiny that he couldn't help but start humming _The Power Of Love_ through his crunching, watching steam condense on the stainless sheath of the coffee machine, dribbling down like the rain on his window had. Only this time his chest didn't ache so much, it thumped with an excited heart beat and he felt his groggy mind waking up a little at that.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my fucking god, as i posted this, the site went down and i FREAKED OUT!  
> "Oh shit, oh no you do NOT do this to me, not after all of that spacing... oh great. KO, fatality, flawless victory."
> 
> I stopped breathing for about an hour, but then it regained consciousness and it was still here, thank fucking god. Ugh, don't need that kinda stress in my life, thanks, cheers, good one AO3. it isn't april the 1st yet. so, i hope you enjoyed it somewhat, as usual, the chapters get away from me but i'm loving what i'm doing so :)


	4. Poor Moo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceremony celebrations don't make for a good training sessions, for anyone, even sure footed redheads and their burning hot skin. Mickey is burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, the love you guys. I adore you! Yep, this is a slow burn, but it won't be long until they collide like players in the rink. I'm getting there :) have no fear! Have some idiot boys for the time being. Enjoy!
> 
> (I watched Ep 6.1 so i needed to get this out here and fucking erase that ever happened. Come sit with me and eat snickers bars and ignore this bullshit until it's fucking fixed cos I will vehemently wait until it is, i refuse to give up without a fight. I'll get Mickey-Moo to ram the bastards into the wall! HIYAH!... yeah, sorry. Just, I want to make you feel better if you've seen it. I'll make them happy, don't worry)

 

Midday the following day found Mickey sitting on the bench in their arena, highly amused and very happy that the beating he'd taken had looked far worse to his coach and team-mates than he knew it was, because he'd been so damn tired, because _they_ were _suffering_. An Opening Ceremony makes for sleepy men, but when an idiot man suggests they go party with the rest of the world, suggests they drink one alcoholic drink each and stick to water or juice, suggests they drink responsibly and tells them he's retiring to his bed regardless, Mickey thinks he's a fucking dummy. A dingo who should have assumed, _known_ , they'd not listen if he left them alone. Louie got so wasted he hadn't returned to Mickey's room to sleep overnight with him, not that Mickey was in any danger, but still, Louie hardly forgot his promises and Mickey had panicked a bit until he'd opened a very slurry, very loud voicemail at 3am. Then he'd grinned and looked forward to practise a whole lot more than he had been.

“Shouldn't have told them you were leaving, Coach,” Mickey laughed, making a show of holding his lower ribs as he laughed at Roberts and Hollander moaning into their gloves as the whistle screamed out. Thompson glowered and Mickey could feel the rage rolling off of him like heat from a fire. The man was not happy.

“I should be able to have faith and trust in a group of 20 something plus men who are playing for the Olympic team in a country they don't fucking know. They should be respectful fuckers and they aren't, just a bunch of _assholes_!” he screamed the last word loud enough to make it bounce and echo all around the arena, aggravating the hangovers. Thompson put his fists on his hips and beamed around the ice at the pain-filled, self-wallowing groans and moans it caused, and then down at Mickey, chewing his gum. He popped his eyebrows and hummed, his mirth screaming _huh? Huh? What'd I tell you? Bunch of fucking assholes._

“Oh man,” Mickey said, trying not to do anything more than chuckle, and from the glares he got, he wasn't doing a very good job behind the wall. He dipped his head and put a finger to his lips to try and stop while Thompson barked at Hollander to _man the fuck up_.

“This is what eating that fucking soy bullshit does to you! Leaves you weak! Weak!”

“I ain't weak, Coach! Someone spiked the fuckin' punch and then we all ate something that we should have really inspected first because I'm sure as anything that it wasn't organic or naturally sourced and it's fucked our systems up Coach,” Milo bemoaned, gliding around while holding his belly.

“Yeah, Coach, I dunno if I'm gonna hurl or shit my pants here. I'm terrified of laughing or bumping into anyone. Can we take a break?” Louie groaned, holding himself really still in a half bent, half crouched position with his arms out to keep possible collisions at bay. Mickey bit his lip to keep the laugh down, feeling pretty bad for Louie because he did look really pale and sicky, frightened too. It was hilarious. All of them were so pitiful and funny to see.

“Yeah! Can we at least get some water or something? See a medic?” David suggested, dropping his stick to grip his head and hiss. All of the team chimed in with agreeing murmurs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Thompson sighed and rubbed his forehead painfully hard to keep the explosive curses at bay, ward off the headache. “Mickey, go fetch us the medic. I swear on Thor's hammer, if you ladies have gotten food poisoning the _day before_ the first match, I'm going to bury every single one of you in the mountains.”

“Hey!” Mickey snorted as he plodded away, waving his hand at the man when he grumbled something and waved Mickey off like he was going to sigh himself into a chair at any given point. “Smoke break?” Mickey asked and Thompson agreed with a few bobs of his head, eyeing Isaacs in his goal, looking like he was going to vomit all over his pads and the ice under them. Mickey went in search, wandering through the changing room and out into the main foyer, looking for something that indicated where medical personnel hid themselves.

“Can I help you?” A tall man wandered over to Mickey, dressed in a suit, as any of the staff were, and folded his gloved hands behind his back while he waited for Mickey to stop eyeing him and the surrounding space. “You look like you've been around the rink on your face. Are you in need of a medic, Sir?”

“Nah, not me, I'm good, this shit happened yesterday and it's not half as bad as it looks. I bruise up real sweet. Look, my entire team is sick,” Mickey said and to the man's frown and subsequent gasp of worry, he nodded. “Yeah, all of 'em, including the reserves. So, we need medics in the changing rooms to give them a look over to make sure they aren't just all severely hungover. Can you send a medic in for me?”

“Not an issue, Sir, I can arrange for that immediately. Which team?” Mickey's eyebrows steadily rose the more he spoke. He had perfect English going for him, accented, but clear and precise. Lucky for Mickey.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. We have medics from all around the world in this facility, tending to the needs of their own as well as others. It helps to send in someone who can understand you better than someone who cannot, yes? Wouldn't want Korean medics not understanding that your are allergic to penicillin, and instead thinking you want it.”

“Ah, alright, OK, I see what you mean. I'm speaking English though, not enough for you?” Mickey tested and got a wry smile for his efforts.

“Not everyone on a team comes from the same place, Sir.”

Mickey scoffed and shook his head. Of course, he'd said as much to Gallagher before. Trust him to land himself with a smart ass as well. He waved a hand up and down his body, highlighting his tracksuit, “USA.”

“You forget that your _entire_ team wears different designs and that there are plenty more countries with the same colours. I am not being dense on purpose,” the guy sniped and Mickey almost laughed in his face as he pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. He spoke quick Korean into the thing and waited while Mickey shifted on his feet, sheepish under the man's heavy stare. Rapid Korean buzzed in, short replies until a clear _yes?_ sounded. “Ned?”

“ _Kori, what can I do for you?_ ” whoever this Ned was, he sounded far to cheerful and chipper for Mickey to even begin to consider liking him. Where'd he come from? Planet Joy?!

“I need a medic. I'm in the Hockey Centre, are you available?”

“ _A hockey player? Is it serious? Do I need to find Mitch?_ ” the voice fired off quickly, then added a little more seriously, “ _Do I need to call an ambulance through again?_ ”

Mickey shook his head and a waved his hands with a mouthed _no_ when Kori looked at him with an inquiring glance. “No ambulance, Ned. Not one man either, the entire team has fallen to some illness. They want to be checked over to make sure it is nothing serious,” Kori said all of this while staring holes into Mickey, looking for agreement or disagreement in his nods and shifting.

“ _The whole team? Christ. OK Kori, I'm almost done with Brown and Gallagher, I'll round up Mitch and we will be over in ten minutes. If they get worse – ambulance. Out_.”

“He will be-”

“Ten minutes, I got that. Hey, uh, what's wrong with Brown and Gallagher?” Mickey asked, feeling a little panicked and confused at to why the hell he was worried about them.

“It is not for me to disclose. I will go and speak with your Coach,” Kori bowed and walked around Mickey towards the doors to the changing rooms.

“No, c'mon man, give me something? They're on my team. OK, not my _actual_ team, but they are in my collective team. Are they hurt or something?” the worry in his voice and splattered all over his face must have done something to the stoic Kori, as he stopped and softened, looking around quickly.

“Sir, we are not to disclose information regarding other competitors. But, in saying that, you have a valid point. You are in the same team and you are not exactly in the same sport either,” he said quickly, curling his finger to speak under his breath close to Mickey's ear, “I do not know all of the information, but I caught the distress call about an hour ago. I heard collision, Brown, Gallagher and unconscious. I do not know how they are now, or what is going on, but Ned sounded relaxed so I will take that as a good sign, and so should you.”

“Fuck. Thanks,” Mickey managed to get out and nodded to Kori as he left, hurrying out of the doors and into the crisp air, searching the site feverishly with his eyes to see if he could spot flame-red hair anywhere. Feeling like he should seek him out, but knowing he didn't really have any business or real excuse to other than to see if he wasn't dead, Mickey had to set his feet and not run into the skaters arena. Deciding to wait it out, Mickey ran a hand down his face and wandered around the back of the Hockey Centre to find his smoking shelter; he felt it fair he call it his as every single time he'd been in there so far, no-one had been in there or joined him with the exception of Gallagher and Louie. The light breeze rustled the bushes and trees as he approached and he began the task of fishing out his lighter and a cigarette, lighting it as he stepped into the plexi-glass hut.

“Hey Mickey,” Ian's voice made him jump out of his skin and he pasted himself against the frame of the archway, hand on his heart and fist up, cigarette on the floor.

“Holy shit fucking _God_ , Gallagher! What the fuck?!” Mickey breathed, staring at the skater like he was the grim reaper, sitting against the seat-bar and smiling with a smoking cigarette between his fingers in all his red haired, red tracksuited glory.

“Sorry. In your own little world, were you?” Ian asked softly and Mickey swallowed in air. He bent to get his smoke off the floor and checked it wasn't damaged or filthy and, satisfied, took the opposing end of the hut. He eyed Ian for a second, pretending he was suspicious of him instead of openly looking for blood and injuries, finding it hard to get comfortable against the bar as it wasn't exactly perfect height for his ass – this thing dug into his back but Ian could lean on it like it was nothing and if Mickey tried to get his backside on this bar, he'd end up with one leg stretched and one leg up off the ground like a kid. Fuck that. He moved and leant on the wall instead.

“Kind of.”

Ian smiled and tipped his head back to rest on the glass, eyes still on Mickey though. “You look worse than you did yesterday. That the reason you weren't at the OC?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, smoking quietly for a while, aware that Ian was watching him from his perch. He spoke after a minute, soft and quite and Mickey had to strain his ear to listen without turning to look at him. The guy was stupidly intense.

“I looked for you. I asked Louie where you were, out of curiosity, 'cause I thought you might've been avoiding me after I spooked you yesterday with that song. Louie looked like someone had punched the life out of him after being reminded you weren't there and, before I could probe him for anything, Seth swept him away for chicken wings,” Ian said and Mickey disguised the sudden tightness in his throat with a cough after exhaling smoke. _I looked for you_. “I can see why you'd be absent though. Must have looked way worse yesterday, and hurt like a fuckin' bitch, right?”

Mickey sniffed and spat on the floor, “Yeah. Didn't help that I was seriously tired either. It wasn't recommended I attend,” he chuckled and Ian smiled, teeth and wide, red lips in Mickey's periphery. “I got rammed face first into the wall by a truck, not fuckin' exaggerating, the dude was huge. It just knocked me about, after the fight with Baker, felt like a rag-doll and the fucker busted all my cuts open again. Nothin' I haven't had before though, and nothin' like the worst I've had in the rink either. Bruises on me are like coal in the snow. Honestly, looks worse than it is.”

“Good. As long as you're OK,” Ian mumbled, sucking on his cigarette and holding the smoke, still watching Mickey as he dotched his out. When he glanced at the leggy skater, Mickey noticed that he was holding himself against the glass with his legs wide and bent and his shoulders planted, not his backside. Lanky fuck. The whole pose looked ridiculously uncomfortable and his face must have contorted to display his thoughts because Gallagher chuckled and pushed off. “It hurts to lean on anything with my ass right now.”

“Why, someone give you a good seeing to, Gallagher?” it was out of Mickey's cheeky mouth before he could stop it and he felt his face heat rapidly, so he ducked and fished out another smoke. It was no secret that Ian was gay so the guy didn't even blink, merely snorted a laugh and lifted his left leg up a little with a wince.

“Took a tumble. I'm due to head back to the hotel soon to see the team physiotherapist. Fun times. He's gonna treat me like dough and knead the fuck out of me, much as I like that normally, it's going to hurt like a motherfucker,” Ian rubbed at his hip and moved over to Mickey. “Want to see my battle injuries?”

“You don't have to-” Mickey was stumped as Ian ignored his light protest and turned his left side to him, pulled down the waist band of his track bottoms and boxers until half of his left ass cheek was visible and the dip of his groin, and lifted up his jacket and t-shirt until Mickey was sure he could see the discolouration of the edge of his nipple. His skin looked like porcelain and Mickey absently wondered if he was actually a shade lighter than a fucking redhead. “Holy fuck, you hit a tank?!”

“Right? Nah, just ice. I reckon hitting ice is much more painful and harder than hitting concrete. Fell plenty of times as a kid, from height, at speed... none of those hurt half as fucking much as going down on an ice rink,” Ian chuckled as Mickey found himself tipping down to get a closer look at the enormous blotch of blackened, purpling skin. His ass was covered and it went curling around hip and thigh and up his side a little, not enough to warrant the hiking of the t-shirt, but still.

“How'd this happen?” Mickey asked, wondering now who had been KO'ed whilst trying not to touch the pale, freckled skin of Ian's hip. Jesus Christ, was he carved from flecked marble? Was that _strawberries_ he could smell?! He swallowed as Ian stepped back and readjusted his clothing, leaning next to Mickey instead of moving back to his painful perch, talking mostly with his hands as they moved with his voice. It was hypnotising. _He_ was hypnotising.

“The rink was sectioned like normal, other guys in there and shit, and I was doing some 3 turns and a dude from France did this jump, something I'd seen him trying to complete for like, an hour. Complex series of jumps you don't usually put together. He kept scowling at me so I think he sees me as a problem to his scores, hah, he's an asshole showing off like that. Anyway, must have clipped a chip in the ice so he came hurtling through his zone, took out Jason hard by trying to hold onto something, caught Brown's knee and dragged him down, knocked him out with a wayward elbow to the jaw. Then the two of them came at me at speed, man, I tried to move out of the way but they caught me anyway, and I landed on my ass. Whole body weight, on my ass. I bruise like a peach so, like you, looks worse than it is. Still fucking hurts to sit though, not like kinda ache I like either.”

“Jesus, that could've been so much worse,” Mickey hushed, charging past the filthy thoughts of making Ian's ass ache how he might like. Oh god, he bottomed like a God, but he would top the shit out of Gallagher if he wanted it.

“Yeah, lucky nobody got cut and Jason came-to pretty quick. He's been taken to the hospital to be checked over, but I'm sure he's good to go. Not like we have to worry, the women are starting first and the pairs are using our rink tomorrow so we got until the day after before he needs to start panicking. He'll be fine, my ass will get strapped with physio tape and all will be right in the world,” Ian sighed dramatically and chuckled when Mickey nudged him.

“Don't you like, use your left to vault? S'going to be a problem for you.”

Ian stared at Mickey for a moment before he smiled, sly and scary, “You were so caught up in what I was doing that you didn't pay attention to _exactly_ what I was doing? Hmm. No, I am one of the small percentage that goes in the opposing direction for jumps, it's why I'm popular, adds to the wow factor I guess? So, I vault with my right, land on my left, when it should be vault with my left, land on my right, etcetera etcetera. Equal amount of variations, so it's nothing really Mickey. It'll be hell on my ass, but the tape will strengthen what the bruising softens. Done it loads of times before, skating with a sore ass, so I'm not worried.”

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey was going for a chuckle but it came out more as a moan and Mickey could fool himself with thinking it is was one of sympathy or frustration. It totally wasn't and Ian must have caught on, his eyes flashing and his mouth curling real wide, that or he thought Mickey was an idiot. Mickey stared at the floor and found his Nike's fascinating. All this talk about his sore ass was making Mickey's throb with jealousy a little. _Bruised ass, from skating, from falling, not fucking, Jesus fuck, stop it_. Was Gallagher flirting with him? His brain had no idea but his body certainly thought he was. Still, he was just so blasé about it all, like it was nothing to skate so battered up, jumping and splitting and spinning and shit. Mickey groaned, rubbing his face, trying to pass it off as pain – this guy, honestly. Mickey had hit a wall and had been benched, Ian had smashed his ass and top of his leg, the instrument of his sport, and here he was, passing it off like it was fuck all. Mickey knew what it felt like to have his legs taken out and he was padded up, and yet, it still hurt like bitch and Ian only had _lycra_ to protect him. Strong legged, toned bodied, lean assed fucker. Mickey was going to melt and die from exposure to Ian Gallagher, he knew it.

“You OK, Mick?” Ian asked softly, reaching out to touch the back of his neck. Mickey groaned at the contact and allowed Ian to rubbed his skin, rocking him a little, making him feel like a weakling and the devil all at once. Mick. Mick!

“My head hurts,” Mickey grouched into his hands, rubbing the heels into his eyes, lying through his rotten teeth.

“You hit a wall, I'm not surprised man,” Ian said, his fingers dancing on the back of Mickey's neck. “You good, though? Nothing sinister?”

“What, like a clot or some shit?”

“No, not that bad, Jesus. Let's not go there, hm? I meant, like a migraine,” Ian's low voice was doing the worst things to Mickey's libido, firing around his blood like some kind of drug and it sent his pulse rabbiting. Mickey grunted. It wasn't a migraine and it wasn't a real headache, more a hypothetical kind named Gallagher. “Hey, I know a trick to keep it off for a bit,” Ian said and moved to stand directly in front of Mickey between his feet. Without asking or checking, Ian yanked up Mickey's sleeves and curled his icy fingers around his pulse points and held on.

“What're you doing?” Mickey asked quietly, a little stunned by the action as he stared at those long digits holding him like handcuffs. Christ, he had massive, soft hands.

“Is it helping?” Ian wondered, eyebrow lifting at Mickey's shake of _no_. Of course it wasn't, it wasn't real, it was burning him, it was drying up his throat and drowning out all noise and sensibility. The redhead hummed and removed his fingers, much to Mickey's relief and misery, only to touch them to Mickey's temples and started circling them gently. “Better?”

“Uh,” Mickey internally kicked the shit out of himself for being so eloquent. Ian merely smiled. No, it wasn't fucking better, it was worse because now Ian's sea green gaze was set on his and he couldn't move a spec to break the hold that they had on him, couldn't stop looking and taking in all of Gallagher's stupid face; his cut jaw, his nose, his bowed lips that he licked before drawing the bottom one into his mouth in concentration. His eyes were the worst though, all doe shaped and eyelashed to hell.

“Mickey?” Ian muttered, watching him, ever watching. He licked his lip again and Mickey's eyes latched onto the movement and he mimicked him without thought, looking back up to see his eyes widen just a little. He did it again and Mickey, powerless and stupefied by the skater in his personal space, trying to care for him even though he was big fat fucking liar, moaned quietly in his throat. Not quiet enough and Ian sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.

“Feels so much better,” Mickey croaked, lying some more, because he was glutton for punishment, shifting to try and keep the heat down and stop his blood heading south in one throbbing, burning flurry. Ian smiled, a little shaken, swallowing as he moved back and removed his fingers carefully, just catching the stray strand of inky hair that refused to sit on Mickey's head no matter what he did to it. Damn helmets. He opened his mouth to say something, looking down at Mickey with darkening eyes, and Mickey gulped and tried to keep his breathing calm, keep his hands to himself because all he wanted to do was snatch Ian by his damn jacket and feel his body slot and settle between his legs, pinning him against the glass. And those lips, they looked nice and soft parted like they were as Ian seemed to stumble for something to say. Mickey sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it as he was wont to do when he was tormented and stressed and nervous. Mickey Milkovich, fucking nervous of some punk on skates, and he'd be damned if he'd admit he _liked_ it.

“Mic-”

“Ian? You still in there?”

“Fuck sake!” Ian hissed as he rolled his eyes heavenward and stepped further back, allowing Mickey the space to stand a little better. “Yeah, I'm in here. Just talking to Milkovich, swapping war stories,” Ian faked a laugh as Max appeared, a bottle of water the size of his arm in his hand. Mickey wanted to punch the cruel interrupter of possible heated encounters.

“Hey,” Max greeted nicely and Mickey gave him a little wave, flashing his brows up and smiling as best he could without looking like he was going to vomit from a overload of stress and a lust-fuelled body surge. Gallagher was most definitely the human torch, lighting Mickey up like a damn bonfire. “You look like you got a roughing up, kid.”

“ _Kid_? I'm probably only a year younger than you, Christ. I think 'roughing up' is putting it lightly though,” Mickey rubbed his nose and stood up straight as Max _giggled_ and Ian turned his head sharply, squinting out of the clear glass with a tick in his jaw. “Hockey is a roughing up kinda game,” Mickey chuckled, eyeing Ian's taut neck and frowning a little at his obvious annoyance. Pissed off Ian Gallagher was burning Mickey's blood up more than regular Ian Gallagher. Was he pissed Max had dropped in at _the_ worst possible moment? Mickey wanted to neck the fucker.

“He calls everyone kid, so either ignore him or come up with your own nickname to annoy him with,” Ian said distractedly, “That here to take me to the station?”

“Oh, yeah. Time to go get your ass fixed, beanpole. Nice to meet you properly, Milkovich, good to know we have some bulk on the ice backing our team,” Max smiled and, to Ian's clear irritation, winked at Mickey before herding Ian out of the shelter to the waiting cart. Even though he was shorter, Max had a grip on Ian as he moved him away and Mickey watched with a laugh as the tall ginger tried to move and dodge back around to say something to Mickey before he was out of earshot, but Max was having none of it. Ian, sadly, and much to Mickey's amusement, gave Max the middle finger and a tiny little wave at Mickey before he was hustled into the cart and driven off, his hot gaze on Mickey until he was out of sight.

“Dork,” Mickey muttered and turned back to lean in his quiet shelter, contemplating an actual smoke now he wasn't being interrupted. He'd managed all of three puffs on the ones he'd had and he was feeling the loss of the hit, so he shrugged and got out another. “The hell is he, Eve's goddamn apple?” he grumbled as he lit the end of his cigarette, sighing at the smoky burn of it and jumping when he phone buzzed in his pocket. His hands were shaking and his pulse had yet to calm itself. Ian had touched him for a minute, in a caring manner, and barely at that, fingertips if anything, and Mickey was a _mess_.

From: Louie 12:57pm

_We have hangovers and irritated stomachs from mixing the shots with pure orange and grape juice. Gave us all water and anti-sickness stuff which has worked like magic. Coach is trying to kill us by screaming blue murder in a small space instead. I'm gonna cry if he keeps fucking screeching like a banshee x_

To: Louie 12:58pm

_Baby. Be there in 5, just smoking x_

He smiled at the thought of the guys getting berated like a bunch of naughty school boys. For once, he wasn't in the group and grinned to himself as another text buzzed in.

From: Louie 12:58pm

_The fuck, you smoking the whole packet assface? He says to get your sweet cheeks in here before he has to come find you. You don't want that X_

To: Louie 12:59pm

_Nah. I got interrupted by the human fucking torch. Was talking for a bit. Sweet cheeks? My fuckin' Ukrainian ass then... I'll be quick x_

He didn't get a reply by the time he'd sucked his cigarette to its death and made his way back into the arena. He hadn't gotten half way down the corridor that lead into the changing area before his ears caught the bellowing of Thompson. He was loud, and despite sounding as angry as volcano, Mickey could hear the heavy undertone of disappoint in his cursing voice.

“If I have to fuckin' scream at you until the cows come home to beat my ass, then I will, do you hear me?” Thompson was yelling as Mickey slipped into the heated room, his eyes taking in the sight of his team slouching forward on the benches, looking pitifully at the ground. They all chorused an agreement. “I had more faith in you than I should have, so fool fucking me. You know better than to fuck about before any training, and to do it the night before our last session, the last one before an _actual_ game against another team, from another fucking _country_... what the fuck, guys?” he sounded defeated and it made Mickey feel like shit even though he hadn't done anything. The rest of the men looked equally as hurt by the sound too.

“We're idiots, we're stupid, childish idiots-”

“You're not fuckin' stupid!” Thompson snapped at Bart, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Look, you're not stupid, none of you are. You didn't think, I get that, I've been in that position before. I just thought I'd picked a group of more clear minded men. This is an important gig for our teams, you all know this. It's not some game against Canada or against each other in a rink during season. I know I keep reminding you that we are in South Korea, competing for the Olympics, but you don't seem to be taking it in. I know you hear me, but you don't _understand_ the importance here. You're not playing for your teams any more, you're playing _together_ to represent the whole of the United fucking States for fuck sake! You're a _team,_ of the best of the best and I hand picked you myself, and when you do stupid shit like this, like fighting over petty crap, or taking dick shots at each other for some ridiculous fucking reason, hurting one another, it really pisses me off and hurts my head, ladies, it really does. You're better than that, you should be working tightly together, relying on one another, not opening up holes for our opponents to use against us.

“Look, you have got to stop this silly bullshit or I'm going to book us the next flight out, I swear to God, I will. I'm not fucking up my career for your sorry asses if you're willing to fuck up your own chances. Get it the fuck together or pack your bags, understood?” Thompson levelled his troops with a stare that made Mickey's eyes water and his lip waver a little. The man looked broken.

“Understood Coach. We're sorry,” Seth piped up, the whole team repeating him until only Mickey was left to say it, which he did, quickly while he moved to take a seat next to Bart.

“Good. Now stay out of my sight, go back to the resort, rest up and all that. Senlintsky, there's a sports hall up there you can use. Get the roller-blades out and fuckin' hound your boys in line before my disappointment in you lot overrides my pride,” Thompson urged hotly before leaving the room, banging the door on the way out.

“Shit,” Mickey whispered and Bart sighed heavily.

“That was but a sliver, trust me. Boys? Showered, changed and out within an hour. We'll catch the 2:15 train back, get some food in us and regroup in the sports hall,” Bart ordered softly and then Mickey was left sitting, watching as every man set about following just that.

“So, what did you chat about?” Louie asked over his shoulder, his locker right behind where Mickey sat. He started stripping out of his kit, skates already off on the floor.

“Nothing really.”

“So you were doing something else then?” Louie asked, the hint absolutely clear in his voice and Seth turned and eyed Mickey cheekily.

“Oh, what's this? Milky found some tail to nail while we got reamed by the boss?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and crossed his legs under him on the bench, “Fuck off, the lot of you!” he bit, pointing accusingly at all of the faces that turned to smirk at him.

“Poor Moo,” Louie cooed softly into his ear so none of the guys heard, rubbing his shoulders roughly.

“So, did you fuck her?” David asked off the bat, folding his jersey up and flexing his back. Friend or not, that was sight Mickey could watch all day.

“Wasn't a her,” Louie supplied, earning a hot stare off Mickey which he had the decency to look ashamed about. The entire locker room 'ahhh'ed in understanding, all leering and grinning at him. God he hated this lot sometimes. None of them bothered in the slightest, which he loved, but it made his life hell when Louie dropped him in the shit like this.

“So, he not like you?” Seth wondered.

“Everyone likes Mickey, the hell you get off?” Bart snorted as he walked through in his boxers, heading for the showers.

“Who doesn't like Mickey?” Shaun asked, poking his head around the end of the lockers. “Do I gotta beat on someone?”

“Jesus, he thinks he needs to protect your virtue or something now you've whooped his ass for calling you a bad word,” Milo giggled from the other side, and his yelp after a towel snap made Mickey chuckle.

“Fuck, you guys want to go picnicking after this? Braid our hair and swap kiss and tell stories?” Mickey teased, ducking the swing Louie sent at him without even looking. He just knew it was coming.

“Nah, serious bro, we're just curious and shit. What you talk about, huh?” Louie put his arms around Mickey's neck and leaned against his shoulders.

“Bruises. Then I made a noise, 'cause _Jesus_ he showed me his bruise Lou, and it was his _ass_ and he just whipped it out like it was a tie in a store! I see it, I made this stupid noise and he thinks I'm pathetic. I pretend it's a fuckin' headache, he falls for it and starts massaging my temples man, right up in my space and it got tense. I don't know what the fuck would've happened if his team mate hadn't just pinged out of thin fuckin' air. Just, I dunno, m'not sure what's happening. Never really been a flirt and find out kinda guy, have I? Jesus Christ, he's intense, the effect he's having on me Lou, I can't explain it,” Mickey muttered to Louie, Seth paying vague attention while he packed his kit away. David sat heavily on the bench next to him and sighed.

“Nah, you're more of a fuck and fuck off kinda guy. If it's confusing, talk to the guy, if you don't wanna do that kind of stuff dude, move on, go find a chick and stick it to her-”

“You're quite disgusting sometimes, Dave,” Seth pulled a soured face and hit David with his towel. “Mickey's legit having troubles here man, leave off the vulgar shit for once? Seems to like this fella.”

“He knows what I mean, Samwise, fuck,” David clicked his tongue and left for the showers, Seth trailing him with an apologetic glance at Mickey, rolling his eyes and tucking his towel into his boxers.

“He is gross,” Louie agreed, letting up on Mickey's shoulders with a kiss to his crown. “You'll be fine Mick, just need to work out what it is you want to do and test the ice again. Don't really know if it's any different to how it is with girls, but sounds to me like he might have tried to kiss you or something, if you'd hinted that you wanted it. Girls are easier to read. Man, you can tell when they wanna make out or some shit, twirling their hair and pouting their mouths and doin' that weird ass twinkle eyed stare and doing the whole...” Louie trailed off as he left for the showers, imitating a girl leaning with her hip cocked out and rubbing her foot on the floor before one of the subs, Jake, shoved him bodily into the washing area, barking a laugh at him, leaving Mickey to sit and stew some more.

“Like you'd know, Fael.”

“Fuck you, I get a lot of ladies, I know shit!”

“Sure you do.”

“I fuckin' do, Jake-lynne Brooker! You kiss my ass, substitute – _fuckers_! Mickey!”

Mickey ignored Louie's cries for help, no doubt getting towel snapped and covered in soap and suds to get him nice and slippery before they -

“Oh god!” Louie screamed as he slid through the changing room on his back. Mickey watched him go with a smirk, barely able to see him he moved so quick. There was a bang and a wail.

“Next time it's fuckin' baby oil, asswipe!” Jake laughed and Mickey sighed, pinching his nose. He felt like a dad in a daycare.

“Pack it the fuck in already!” Bart yelled and silence descended quickly. “Seriously guys? That was my damn shower gel!”

“You just... I give up with you sometimes, Lou,” Mickey chuckled as Louie stormed through carefully, naked and scratched up, dripping bubbles like rain.

“You're on my shit list!” he snapped, pushing the soap through his hair to get the blond mop out of his eyes. Mickey just laughed in his face. “Fuck you, Mickey, fuck you.”

“You wish baby,” he winked and Louie raged off, swearing black and blue, “You do this to yourself!” Mickey called after him, getting up off the bench to begin getting his kit packed away. He had brought it with the hope that Thompson would have let him skate a bit today, but no, it sat unpacked in his locker. He went about loading his skates into the holdall neatly, then his pads and jersey before he stopped and realised his error. “I'm sorry Louie!”

“Yeah fuckin' yeah,” the blond grouched just before he appeared in his towel, drying off without a care that his cock was hanging out. Louie, despite being Louie, had made sure not to name drop Ian.

“Want my snickers bar?” Mickey said softly, sweetly and slowly slid the confection out of the pocket of his bag with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Louie stared at him hard and Mickey swallowed.

“If you think you can buy me off after this bullshit,” Louie snapped and turned his back to Mickey to show him the lino burn down to his ass, even on it, the backs of his calves. “Then you'd be my Mickey. Gimme the bar, bitch,” he smiled as he turned and put his hand out. “Save me next time.”

“Wouldn't have been able to do much, Lou, you flew down the room like a rocket. It'd have been like trying to catch an oiled pig in a pen. Imposs,” Mickey said and threw the bar to him, resuming his packing while the rest of his team dressed in a loud bubble of noise. They left once they were all accounted for, and Mickey found himself watching the skating arena as they walked through the site while knowing Gallagher was probably on his last stretch of the rails to the resort, if not there already. What was happening to him?

“You like him, don't you?” Louie asked quietly as they walked at the back of the group, Louie chewing the snickers bar thoughtfully when Mickey didn't answer, merely blinked a few times trying to work it out himself. “Doesn't have to be the kind of like him where you want to hold his hand, or the kind where you want to fuck him so hard he can't breathe. I like you, you like me, could be that kind of way bro. You know, just liking him because he's likeable, because he is, I know. He's a really nice guy Mick, so get to know him, and then maybe you'll know just where you stand on the liking scale of bros.”

Mickey sighed and eyed Louie for a long, long time before he spoke, “You're insightful sometimes, in your weird ass way, Fael. Thanks.”

“Anything for you baby boy,” Louie cooed, hooking his shoulder and draping his arm there, kissing Mickey wetly on his cheek for good measure. Mickey growled, knowing what was coming as Louie tightened his hold and licked his temple disgustingly. “Yes, you're older, but you're littler than me so you're my baby. A baby would can drop my huge ass in a snap, no doubt, but a baby nonetheless. My gorgeous, blue eyed honey baby boy Mikhaylo, so sweet and tender, who needs a good seeing to from the big, bad boy in blu- ugghh no! No Mickey, I'm sorry Mick! I should've stopped – Mickey please, _no_ , Mickey! Mickey!”

“You had to ruin it, accept the fall out,” Mickey had him in a headlock with his hand clamped over Louie's wailing maw as they crowded into the train and dragged him through the centre aisle to where he fancied sitting, dumped his carry on, and kept going until he found the toilet and waited for the automatic door to hiss open, Louie fighting violently the entire time. “Potty mouthed motherfuckers reside in here, bitch,” Mickey rumbled as he threw Louie in and trounced off happily, laughing as his friend squawked and bitched loudly. He rubbed at his biceps and shoulders as he sat down as Louie had struggled and tensed them up quite nicely, even managing a scratch to his right forearm.

“What did he do?” Bart asked as he slid into the seat opposite. Mickey shrugged and accepted the orange water from the hostess as she wandered through. Rather than answer, Mickey watched the woman until she wandered by the toilet and shrieked as Louie's disembodied voice flirted out from the doorway.

“Couldn't keep his motor from runnin',” Mickey said simply and Bart snorted, settling in to read over the schedule and emails on his Ipad. Mickey fished his Kindle out of his bag and turned it on.

“There's something I thought you might like to know, Mick, but I'm not going to say it out loud for everyone else so just a second,” Bart murmured so lowly that Mickey had to really focus on his tone to even begin to work out what he'd been saying, but he caught the gist of it. Soon enough, Bart handed him his Ipad and turned to talk to Jake and Milo and another sub called Harley.

_There's a public rink in the lower resort where guests are staying, away from us. I have no interest in it, but I know you like to skate in peace to collect yourself before matches. Go there after 9pm and they'll let you in and station a doorman to keep anyone else out. Thought you might like it._

“Yo,” Mickey kicked Bart's leg and handed him the tablet back. “Nice to know. Thanks man.”

“What is?” Seth asked as he walked through to kick Louie into a seat; he was still flirting like a dog in heat and Mickey rolled his eyes at the display. As much as it was creepy, the kid had girls falling at his feet in seconds. He could charm the birds from the trees, Louie. Mickey was glad he wasn't gay because he knew for a fact he'd have fallen right into that trap in a blink.

“Bart just found me a brutal KO from a match way back when. Team was havin' fall outs and shit, I remember it, and it's something we need to fuckin' avoid by manning up and being a close knit team,” Mickey quickly supplied, looking around the carriage with a warning look at anyone could was paying him attention. Seth nodded thoughtfully as he headed off to shut Louie down.

“Smooth,” Bart noted as he sank back into his emails, smiling to himself as Mickey was while he read his Kindle and simultaneously flipped his captain the bird. He was still grinning a while later, mostly because now he was knee deep in Harry Potter, when his phone buzzed in his pocket and he glanced at Louie. The blond had his head down in his lap and was cherry red in the face which, from Mickey's past experiences, meant he was either in trouble or getting dirty with someone on the other end of the phone. He didn't recognise the number and chanced another look at Louie. He was now biting his knuckles and looking out of the window. Mickey sighed and opened the text, ready to launch his glass of water at Louie's face because he just _knew_ it was something to do with him.

_I would have kissed you._

It took seconds for it to dawn on Mickey as to who this was and he found Louie's eye in a blink, staring at him and looking so shamefaced and guilty that Mickey could only give him an exasperated look back. He looked back down at his phone and stared at the text.

_I would have kissed you._

“Fuck,” Mickey swore quietly, thumb in his mouth before he could think, chewing it. He sighed and text a reply quickly and then shoved his phone deep into his pocket where he knew he'd not feel it buzz and picked up his kindle, fighting to concentrate on Harry fucking Potter. Willing himself to concentrate on the wizarding world of hooligans and troublesome youths and not on how that mouth was haunting his mind, on what it might have felt like. He flashed hot all over and hit himself on the forehead with the Kindle, groaning pitifully. Jesus Christ, this flame thrower was going to burn him into the ground.

_You should have._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Moo. Come say Hi, I'm over in the [Tumblrsphere](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/elfydwarf) ;)
> 
> Ever fallen on an ice rink? That shit fucking hurts, it really does feel harder than concrete, I swear to god. Hit it hard enough, you bruise like a kid trying to skateboard down a railing but, no, he HITS the railing and turns into a blueberry. S'bad. I know.


	5. Come With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey invites Ian to tag along when he goes skating to wind down for the game, but Ian only winds him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh im so tired. I apologise for the shit quality, i... yeah. thank you for your continued love and support, you make me smile so damn hard guys! as usual, not mine apart the mistakes and the general AU idea. no money, no gain. I'm trying to make the fandom a little lighter.

“Seth, stop being a dick! Go fetch the ball, man, _you_ lost it,” Bart whined at Seth from across the hall. The brunet pulled a face and pushed his hockey stick into Louie's chest, skating off through the hall to the open doors at the far end where, after a hustle for it, the ball had shot outside.

“I like this hall man, s'big. Like, Olympic big, yeah?” Louie muttered to himself as he skated around Mickey with a wide eyed look of fascination etched into his chiselled face, a stick on each shoulder. Mickey scoffed and clipped his ear, rocking his feet back and forth on their wheels to see how far he could push it before he ended up on his ass or splitting. He could do the splits, not on command like Gallagher, but he could do them with enough stretching. Mandy hated him for it, jealous brat.

“You serious?”

Louie looked confused for a second and then laughed stupidly, “Oh yeah. Well, it's not stadium sized, but, fuck you Mickel Back, you know what I meant!” He griped, pouting for the hell of it while weaving his legs back and forth to get away from Mickey's swing quickly.

The hall was big, it had an 800m track running around it with room to spare, so it wasn't like a school hall or anything similar. Big enough to play a few games, or drills, because Bart was being relentless and they were all exhausted and sweating buckets. The hall had air conditioning but it did nothing once they'd been rolling around brutally quick and sharp so they'd opened the end doors with the authorisation from the staff. They'd also been advised to place crash mats against the walls that had no seats lining them just because it fucking hurt to hit solid walls more than it did to smash head first into the reinforced barriers of an ice rink. Only one or two of the team had managed to get to cocky and lost control for the mats to be warranted; the space available was enough to not worry over it. The poles though, Mickey was pleased they were cushioned regardless because they were more of a concern when focus was set on the little cricket ball they'd acquired to smash about.

“Can't find it!” Seth yelled from just inside the doors, his breath fogging a little.

“Ah, well, that's just fucking peachy ain't it?” Mickey jeered, wobbling as his feet rocked to far apart.

Bart sighed so heavily it was audible from where he was on the other side of their court. “Jesus. Right, I want you lot to do some relay reps. I'll do it too, don't you fucking start Milo, jeez. Right, sticks down, on the far wall boys!” he clapped and waved in the general direction of the bench by the entrance to put their sticks down, which they did in a grumbling, complaining mass of padded up tired limbs and roller-blades.

When they had all lined up, looking like little more than a few guys given the size of the place, Bart placed himself in the middle. “As many as you can manage, boys, don't kill your legs. On my mark!”

“Jesus, this is gonna be funny,” Louie giggled from Mickey's right and Mickey couldn't help but wonder if it would be, or just painful. They all readied their feet and put one hand on the wall behind them.

“Three, two-”

“Sparta!” Shaun roared and, much to Bart's annoyance – _fuck sake Baker!_ \- they all pushed off as one formidable force. Mickey pushed his legs as hard and as fast as he could manage, flying along the polished floor like he was on the ice, even though it wasn't nearly as fast or clean. The other thing that pissed him off about the halls was the noise the skates made on the wood. It wasn't hissing or snicking but deafening roaring, thunking noises that threatened the headache that sat just above his left eye, waiting to knock him sideways. He put his foot out to slide into the crash mat against the approaching wall and pushed off again with a grunt, feeling the burn before he was even half way back. He grit his teeth and pushed through it, ignoring it, knowing he could keep it up if he let his mind drift away from it.

“No way, hah! Mick?” Louie panted, trying to keep up with Mickey's pace and only managing to catch him when his friend braced against the starting wall for barely a second, “Look at the, shit, fuck ahh!”

“Idiot,” Mickey breathed, shooting off again and trying not to extend his stride outward any further and catch another player. That would hurt his pride more than his body.

Louie managed to catch him as he hit the other mat, slowing down a bit this time before he took his own face off, “Mick, look at the- fuck _me_ this is worse than the rink, Jesus holy fire.”

“Fucking spit it out, ain't got time for this chit-chat crap right now. Kinda- whoa, I'm hitting the wall. Ah, Christ,” Mickey wheezed, slowing right down to lazily rolling and kicking his feet for a bit, as many of his team were doing, including Bart. The Wall, every sportsman's nightmare.

“Ah, right so, _shit_ , yeah look at up into the stands, man,” Louie breathed, clearly in need of some air and break, but he soldiered on like everyone else, wincing and groaning. Mickey frowned and set his sight on the starting wall before he thought of looking anywhere else, using the mat as a reason to stop for a second and look around, up into the stands and sure enough, right at the very top by the doors that lead out onto the higher entrance and footbridge, was Gallagher. _Shit_. Well that took the fight right out of him, filling him with a silly warm buzzing sensation instead, the feeling running up and down his back like it was the skaters damn hand there instead. He wished it was. Ian gave a nod and Mickey inhaled deeply, pushing off again. He had to keep going regardless of if he was being watched, regardless of how much of an effect it had on his concentration and on his whole body. Having those eyes on him set him ablaze again. He could _feel_ them.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed as he forced his aching legs to get him to the opposing wall, startled when Fulham went down in front of him, face first into the floor with a shout of shock and pain, his helmet clacking loudly off the hardwood. “Shit!” Mickey rolled up to him and skidded, falling himself and twisting so he landed on the edge of his thigh with a thump rather than his ass or back.

“ _Ah_ , God that hurt more than I had hoped it would. Fu...ck...” Greg was like Mickey in game, one of the guys to tackle and hurt, and he kept away from Mickey as much as Mickey kept away from him. They had each others backs, no doubt, they were fighting for the same team, circling the rink like vultures most of the time and to see him downed had Mickey scrunching up his face in sympathy. It took a hell of a smack to take down Mickey, more so Greg.

“You OK, bud?” Mickey wheezed, giving up on the relay entirely. He was fucking hurting up and down his legs and back and even remotely thinking of getting back up to resume made his toes curl. “Neck OK? Teeth missin'?”

“Nah. Winded,” was all Greg managed to get out and Mickey helped him sit up, carefully eased off his helmet and guided the man's head between his knees.

“In through the nose, out through the mouth, you know the drill,” Mickey rubbed his shoulder before coughing against the rawness of his chest and throat, shifting to kneel and sit on his boots. “Bart?” he shouted, pulling off his own helmet.

“Mick?”

“Fuckin' call it man, we're dyin'! It's been like, two hours,” Mickey said as Bart rolled over, heaving for breath and sweating up a storm. His winced and held his ribs for a moment, his face contorting behind his face guard.

“Yeah. Yeah, OK,” he puffed, clapping his hands together as much as he could and it was feeble attempt at best. “Guys? Quits. Just... Coach, all that shit earlier-”

“We know, we get it,” someone yelled brokenly through the sound of relieved whimpers and groans of achy legs.

“Sorry.”

“Nothin' you need apologise for, Cap,” Seth called, to which everyone agreed, making Bart smile brightly.

“Right, go chill the fuck out and I'll see you all in the morning. 7am, hotel lobby. Don't turn up tired or you'll be skinned alive, clear?” he chuckled when they all bitched and mumbled swears as they cleared out. “You good down there Greg? Can you get up?”

“Yeah man, just took the tiny bit of breath I had. Mick, if I feel half as tired as you did yesterday when you took that slam, man, sympathies a-plenty from my corner,” Greg sighed, heaving himself up with a hand off Bart, grabbing Mickey's padded shoulder fondly as he skated off. Mickey stayed on the floor, waving Bart's questioning look off, and soon he was left by himself, catching his breath and listening to the sound of hockey sticks clattering around and heavy doors opening and closing.

“You look so, _so-oh_ very tired down there Mickey,” Ian had a stealth setting, Mickey knew it, he had to have one because the fucker kept on sneaking into his areas without a sound, without even catching Mickey's eye. Mickey dared a glance up at Ian's towering frame and found him grinning, clearly amused by Mickey's posture and pose on the floor.

“You try doing reps after what he put us through. I know you do all sorts of hard shit, but hockey is another level,” Mickey sniffed, his breathing steady for now. Lord knew it was going to get fucked up pretty quick, pretty soon, if he stayed within five feet of Gallagher. _I would have kissed you_. Ian chuckled and put his hand down, open for Mickey to inspect and stare at.

“Hand up? C'mon,” he urged lightly, wiggling his long fingers temptingly. Mickey licked his lip and slowly slid his hand into Ian's, surprised and a little turned on by how easily Ian seemed to haul his dead weight up off the floor. The skaters other hand shot out and steadied Mickey's rolling legs with a solid grip on his waist. “You good? Or do you need to me wheel you to the bench?”

Mickey snorted at the teasing gleam in Gallagher's eye, trying his hardest to focus on moving his wobbly knees and not on the pressure against his side or the cool, smooth slid of Ian's fingers twining with his to get a better grip on Mickey's sweating hand. “Fuck you,” he said, letting his lip curl in the smallest of smiles before removing his hand and turning to leave the hall.

“You doing anything after you're done here?” Ian wondered, trailing him.

“Uh, I had something I wanted to do, why?” Mickey asked, ever aware of those eyes on the back of his neck. He dumped his helmet on the floor and sat on the bench, unlacing and popping the clasps on his boots so he didn't have to look up at Ian standing over him with his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his black jeans. Were they painted on too?!

“Just wanted to see if you'd be up for some light conversation, possible laughs, maybe some manoeuvring tips. Hanging out, you know?” he was so fucking casual that Mickey stumbled with his clasp and snapped the skin of his finger in it. It stung but, hell, it did nothing to stop him from looking up and giving Ian his full attention. Jesus, was he wearing eye liner? He must be, Mickey concluded, because his eyes were striking. It was eye liner or false eyelashes or some kind of magical shit going on up there. Those lashes were doing Mickey's heart rate a severe injustice, framing so perfectly and revving his engine up. And with that mop of fire slicked back and vibrant under the lights of the hall – Mickey had to swallow and rub at his nose so he could hide his fidgeting. His inner eye flashed up the image of Gallagher's pale hip bone and the thickness of his side. Mickey idly wondered if the kid knew how lethal he was, how dangerously gorgeous he was to look at. Probably. Or not. He was very soft in his mannerisms, not at all cocksure and arrogant.

“Huh? Why would you wanna spend time with me when you got Louie you can harass, 'cause he likes that kind of thing. Talking and swapping tips and laughing his ass off about random shit,” Mickey quickly reeled off, tearing his gaze away to wrestle his skates off again. _Damn_ green eyes burning his skin up, setting off that shiver and those goosebumps _again_. Fuck this Grecian firecracker and his soul snatching gaze. Those green crystals were going to haunt Mickey's life, he knew it, dreams be damned, they weren't just going to stop invading there.

“You not like those things, Mickey?” Ian asked with an amused lilt to his voice. God, he wished Louie had never dropped his name to Ian because he was sure there was no other person on earth who could say it so simply, so obviously normal, and make it sound like a goddamn promise.

“Not my kind of thing, unless I'm high or headed into drunken territory, two things we cannot do here because it's one, not clever to fuck your game, and two, there's the fucking random drug tests they pull,” Mickey sighed, finally free of his boots. As he stood and tucked them under his arms, picked up his stick and helmet, he met Ian's eye and licked his lip again. “I have plans though, so... Catch you 'round, Ian.”

He hadn't meant to say his name like a prayer, on sigh like that, but it happened, and Ian clearly liked it because he did that sharp inhale through his nose again and widened his eyes, snapping them onto Mickey's and refusing to let them go. “You sure you don't want to? Your plans can't be moved around or something?” Ian tempted, soft and with a tip of his body towards Mickey, smiling the smile of the devil.

Helpless against Ian fucking Gallagher, Mickey felt his mouth open and spit out words he gave no authority over, “I'm going skating, come with me if you want.” What the hell was going on. Mickey felt his blood drain a little in panic. He never shared his quite time with anyone. He had never wanted to. He wanted to now. _You should have_.

“Yeah? I like the sound of that,” Ian hummed, nodding himself into agreement. Mickey popped an eyebrow and pursed his mouth, licking it again and catching Ian's eyes zeroing in on his tongue for a second.

“A'ight, sweet. Go grab your skates and meet me out front in like, ten minutes or something, I gotta change out of this stuff. If you ain't there...” he left the warning hanging in the air as he shoved through the doors to change, kicking himself as soon as the doors shut behind him. Jesus he was going to make a fool of himself, give himself a red-haired heart attack while at it. He ducked into the shower quickly, and changed into his normal clothes, telling Louie that he was going to go a wind down. The blond knew what that meant, his pre-game chill session, but not _exactly_ what he was doing. Probably thought he was going to go seek out some solitude and turn up his music. He didn't question Mickey, merely reminded him to get into bed before midnight and gave him half a hug before he left Mickey carefully packing away his items. He checked his clothes before wrapping up in his thick winter coat and scarf, loaded the roller-blades into the rack before leaving himself, hauling his bag with him out into the freezing air. He had a flash of panic – what the hell was he doing, asking Ian to go skate with him? He wanted him to be there though, he knew that much if he knew nothing else. He just had to play it safe, keep his cards close to his chest and not crumble like a cake without knowing exactly what the hell was going through Ian's mind, where he stood, follow Louie's insane 'like him' advice, maybe even ask him outright, find out where Gallagher was coming from. Right by the illuminated sign as it were, smiling with a bag in his gloved hands.

“Perfect timing, twinkle toes,” Mickey grinned, yanking on his beanie hat and gloves, “Bit of a walk down to the place so, steady as she goes, right? Don't go falling on your ass or bustin' up that face of yours. I won't help you.” He had almost said _pretty face_ but had managed to control his stupid mouth for once by actively not looking at Ian as he strode next to him, looking instead at the many buildings in their Village and the darkened skies that seemingly did nothing to dim the brightness. Snow was always so bright, even with the sun down, and Mickey found it both creepy as fuck and peacefully nice to be walking outside in it.

“Why the hell not?”

“I'll be too busy laughin' my own ass into the ground, that's fuckin' why,” Mickey chuckled as Ian gave him a bump with his shoulder.

“I don't actually want to hurt my ass any more than I did to start with,” Ian assured with a smile, his eyes flickering to Mickey and back to watching his footing. The walkways were clear and safe, gritted and grippy underfoot, but still, black ice. Skate professionals or not, neither of them liked the stuff. “I'll try not to wreck Oscar's handiwork. He's worked wonders with the bruise kit he has, a master of the art of patching up bashed glutes. I can sit down OK now, which is _real_ nice.”

Mickey sniffed and winkled his nose, wriggling it in a way that suggested it was itchy, but doing it purely for the way Ian's eyes snapped to attention, a small smile forming, “Best be careful then when we get on the ice, eh? Don't want an angry physio bustin' down my door in the morning raging about broken firecrackers.”

“Firecrackers,” Ian muttered through a light chuckle, almost a giggle really, and Mickey felt himself flush hot so he tugged his scarf up over his nose. Ian seemed to like only being able to see Mickey's eyes for his smile softened and curled up nicely. What was this guys issue, smiling all the damn time. “Where are we going then?” he asked, tugging his own scarf up so all Mickey could see was his eyes. Fucker. There was no way Ian hadn't caught onto the fact that Mickey liked them, he knew he'd seen the way he'd not been able to focus on much else whenever he was close in proximity. Mickey cursed Louie again, because it was his damn fault really.

“There's a rink down in the public Village. It closes around this time, and Bart found out that they'll let me in after 9 if I wanted to use it to wind down. Gonna have to go steady though after that session in the hall,” Mickey said, Ian nodding along.

“Hey, Ian,” some woman breathed as she walked past, up the slope towards the hotels, “Did you get my message from Jason?”

“Sure did,” Ian looked like he was scowling with half his face covered, but Mickey knew those eyes meant a smile, a tense one, but a smile nonetheless. Ian turned to walk backwards to give his attention to the woman kindly, not slowly though and making sure Mickey didn't halt either.

“And?” she pushed, doing a perfect impression of Louie's girl that had Mickey biting his top lip so he didn't laugh. Hair twirling and everything. Jesus.

“No, Amy,” Ian sighed, stopping and dropping his chin a little when she pouted.

“Why not? Could be fun baby,” she leered with an exaggerated wink and Ian hissed _oh my fucking god_ quietly, but Mickey caught it. Deciding that he could help out, he pulled down his scarf and smiled pitifully at the woman, even putting his hand out before he screwed his face up questionably, eyebrows up.

“You lookin' to fuck him, that it?” his blunt question had her twitching in shock and Ian sniggering into the fleece of his scarf. He felt his stomach roll with a spike of jealousy.

“Uh, I Uh-”

“Yeah, she was,” Ian looked too amused about it, but his eyes were on Mickey, and that's all Mickey wanted. The sparkle was back and he liked that he was making Ian laugh, easing his discomfort and having all of his attention. Fuck this woman.

“Well, she's kinda barking up the wrong tree, huh?” Mickey was near laughing, turning back to the red faced woman. He gave her a soft smile and sucked his teeth, “He likes dick.”

“I beg your pardon?” she hissed and Mickey nearly hit himself in the face with his palm.

“Everyone knows he's gay, lady. Everyone except you, apparently. Look,” Mickey rubbed his nose and eyed her, “I know a guy who can help you out. Actually, a handful of guys, if you're into that, or you know, take your fucking pick, whatever. Go to the hotel with the fucking sparkling snowflake on it, lit up in white. In the lobby ask for the USA hockey players, and tell them Milkovich ran into you. They're good guys, will take care of you, so be nice and shit. Thank me later.”

“Snowflake, you say?” she mused, looking at Mickey with a new light in her eye, considering him. He nodded and waved her off with a flick of his hand.

“Oh, Gallagher would appreciate it if you, you know, kept him from havin' this kinda awkward shit in the future, get my drift?” Mickey called before he turned from her completely, Amy calling back a _yeah, I get it, I'll spread the word, asshole_.

“Jesus. Don't mind me at all Mick,” Ian chuckled, bumping him with his shoulder as they picked up the pace. Mickey snorted and pushed his shoulder hard enough to send him staggering with a choked laugh, dodging out of the reach of those hands when Ian made to grab for him.

“Where she from exactly?” Mickey asked as they found some stairs and descended with hopping steps.

Ian hummed, twisting to avoid knocking into other people, “I think she comes from Spain, not entirely sure. Ran into her yesterday at the OC, thought she was flirting with me then, even tried to lure me to her hotel, grabbed my crotch and everything. She was drunk so I thought she'd forget and I thought she had until I got a text off Jason this morning telling me that she had sent word through someone he knows in the skiing group that madam wanted to meet up to get to know each other some more. He thought she was being friendly, bless his blind heart. Friendly, _Jesus_...” he started giggling about it and Mickey wanted to bottle that sound.

“Oh she was being friendly alright,” Mickey said sourly into his scarf, hoping Ian didn't hear him, fighting down that green bubble of jealous rage. Ian was a step behind, and it was crowded the further down the stairs they got, so Mickey was hopeful. He scowled at the amount of stairs they had to go down, internally cursing the fuck out of them because they'd have to climb back _up_ at some point. Fucking Bart.

“We should use the ski lift to get back,” Ian supplied and Mickey gave him thumbs up rather enthusiastically. He's forgotten about that, on purpose. He fucking hated ski lifts. “Busy down here. Good job we're not really recognisable, it'd be a nightmare. Got anyone staying here for the Games?” Ian asked, able to hop next to Mickey now the stairs had widened significantly. They passed through a check point, sneakily showing their ID passes cupped in their hands and were waved through silently.

“Yeah. Mandy, my sister, is flying in around 4am. She should make it to the game tomorrow if she's slept on the plane, but if not, hardly bothers me if she misses it, she's seen me play a shit load of times. Just gonna be nice to see her. Been so damn busy these last few months that I've barely seen her at home. Man Louie is goin' to piss himself, fuckin' adores Mandy and I haven't said if she's coming or not.”

“Oh god, he's going to freak the fuck out!” Ian laughed and Mickey nodded. “He goes batshit over the simplest of things, I know that much. You know, he almost kissed me after the skating the other day, wanted to 'grab boob' too. You have _got_ to let me see this reunion.”

Mickey licked his teeth and shook his head. Obviously his BFF had failed to mention this, but Louie did say his self control was slipping up before Ian had danced them into the floor. “Don't worry about it, I'll video it. What about you?”

“Well, my brother Carl and my sisters Fiona and Debbie flew in this morning. I got to see them earlier, which was really good, had dinner and caught up a bit. My older brother should be flying in at some point, an unknown date really, if he comes at all. We had a huge fight before I left for here, told him to go fuck himself, he told me to break a leg, literally, so if he turns up at all, I'll be surprised. Fi said he was coming but fuck if I care to be honest.”

“He sounds just swell,” Mickey teased, earning himself a shove. “Sweet, look, there it is. No more fuckin' stairs.”

The ice rink was half way up the incline, nestled into the snow and trees and nice and dark, shut up for the night. Mickey thanked his stars for it not being right in the middle of the visitors and sports fans, and even though both he and Ian were unrecognisable right now, it still made him nervous. At home he was just like most others unless a hockey fan spotted him out, but here he wasn't just a face. Like Ian wasn't either. The resort had some rules about guests in the competitors Village and so far, they had been kept to, which was nice. The Games had started up already, but nothing heated had begun yet and usually, when the medal runners were all that was being talked about and all that was going on, fans got a little handsy and brash. Especially the hockey fans.

“Evening gentlemen. Can I help you?” there was a security guard on the door, a happy fellow all bundled against the cold with baton and a stun gun visible on his belt. Fuck.

“My team captain told me about this place earlier, said something about being able to use it after hours for recreational purposes?” Mickey said, pulling his scarf down, Ian following suit. The man recognised Ian straight away and gave Mickey a good look before he frowned so Mickey clicked his tongue and tore off a glove, showing the guard his _FUCK_ tattoo. The guard started laughing and beamed at Mickey's pinched expression.

“Senlintsky's boy. Yes, here,” he turned to unlock the door and yelled in something to the other Korean guard sitting at the desk, ushering them into the warmth. “Carry on. He'll put on the lights and come to check in with you in about an hour. We just ask that you do not put any music on, or turn on any more lights than we put on. We are closed after all. If you want music, take a dock from behind the counter where our staff rack up the shoes and set up the FanPods.”

“That's what those devices are called? You serious?” Mickey laughed when both Ian and the guard nodded, the guy handing them the little devices, Ian beaming at the sound of Mickey's delight and Mickey could feel him staring at the side of his face before obediently following his heels down into the rink with the other guard. He let them into the cloakroom and disappeared back to his post with a nod, leaving them to their recreation.

“It's kind of eerie in here without any people. Suppose the low lights add to the freaky atmosphere,” Ian spoke offhandedly while Mickey went about getting his skates out his bag. “Nice blades, man,” Mickey glanced up to see Ian bending over to get his own pair from his bag, the tight jeans pulling taut over his backside.

Mickey coughed and tore his eyes away as Ian moved to sit on the bench next to him, “Got to have the best, right? None of that flimsy bullshit when you're supposed to be an immovable battering ram.”

“I hear you,” Ian chuckled, wiggling his socked toes once he had his shoes off, “Doesn't do well to skimp on quality. These are my own, the ones I use for events are packed away with my sequins and glitter.”

Mickey snorted and laced up his skates nice and snug, standing quickly to yank his clothes back into place and wondering why he thought slim jeans were a good choice for this, and without a belt; they kept tugging down and threatening to out his boxers while arguing with the hem of his thin jumper, revealing the skin of his back to the cool lining of his coat. “Shit, where's the dock thing?” he looked around in the dimly lit room and spied the wall with the counter cut into it, rack upon rack hidden in the shadow behind it. He carefully walked over and reached over, thanking his blades for the added leverage though he was still bent right over and dangerously close to having his feet up off the floor. He started looking and feeling about until he got a hold of a black box, “This it?” he asked, holding it up without turning in case he needed to keep on with his search.

“Yeah,” Ian was right behind him, having stealth walked his way over the carpet tiles on his blades like he was fucking Spiderman. Mickey fought hard to keep still and not jump out of his skin, but it was a near thing and he still let out a deep startled groan. “Jesus, you're going to hurt yourself in a minute. Will you put the box down, please?” Ian's voice sounded desperate and Mickey frowned as he did as he was asked and inhaled sharply when a pair of hands clasped his hips and tugged him down off the counter.

“Is there a problem?” Mickey asked quietly, hardly trusting his voice at all. Even though Ian wasn't actively touching him any more than with his hands, Mickey could feel him standing right behind him, could feel his presence like he was the only thing that existed right then. Not the room, not the skates on their feet or the sponging flooring under them, not the counter. Ian's breathing was audible even with the hum of the heating system in the ceiling and the puffs of his breath danced along Mickey's neck, making his skin break out in those damn goosebumps, tempting his spine into giving off a reactive shiver.

“Only the one, which I intend to sort,” Ian's hands came away and Mickey swallowed, turning quickly to scowl at him, demand to know what the hell he had done wrong just now, but when he managed to turn and face the redhead, his voice abandoned him. Ian's face wasn't lit brilliantly, but he was flushed and breathing like he'd been skating already and his eyes, dim lighting or not, Mickey knew those pupils weren't from light reaction. He knew that look, fuck, he'd seen it on his own face in the bathroom mirror that afternoon after wanking off to the image of Ian's bow mouth and lean body because of that damn text message.

“What'd I do wrong? Cut the carpet tiles up? Dent the counter? Did I worry you, twinkle toes?” Mickey sassed and failed terribly at it, his voice too hushed and barely mumbled out between his lips. Ian's nose flared and he moved so quickly that Mickey instinctively put his hands out to block a hit, breathing heavily with alarm as his fingers dug into Ian's coat around his biceps, eyes wide in shock and blurring Ian's face. He was kissing him. Ian Gallagher had balls, Mickey had to admit, just going for it without any questions, and Mickey found he liked it, very much, though he'd have liked a hint or warning maybe so he wasn't getting his lips crushed to his teeth. Ian's mouth was hard against his, pressing firmly and desperately as though Mickey would shove him off and he realised he was holding Ian's arms in a tight grip, exactly like anyone would before shoving someone the fuck back. He relaxed the pressure a little bit, sliding his hands up instead, one to cup Ian's sharp jaw and thumb his ear and the other up the short cut on the base of his skull.

Ian pulled back and flashed his eyes all over Mickey's stunned face, searching him. “You, uh, did I cross a-"

“Again,” Mickey grumbled, sighing into Ian's mouth as he followed the order quickly, mouth open slightly and angled to suit them both, his lips soft and pliant against Mickey's. Ian's hands fell on his hips again, holding Mickey steady against the counter as he introduced his tongue to Mickey's mouth, soft and light and Mickey felt his body burn up at the touch against his own. One hand left his hip and gripped the back of his head as Ian deepened his kiss, pressing against Mickey as much as their coats allowed him to, groaning in his throat when Mickey licked into his mouth and oh, if that wasn't a heavenly sound. Mickey's hand tightened in his hair, the other moving to Ian's coat to twist in the fabric, tugging him closer still.

Mickey liked to kiss, and the first one usually dictated if he would continue on with any more. Most all of his encounters never went past one kiss, instead opting to get the sloppy kisses of his partner on his throat or chest and eventually his dick, but this guy knew how to use his lips properly, how to introduce his tongue and when, and none of it too wet and over eager, not trying to eat his chin or cheeks like some of the guys he'd met. If anything, Ian let Mickey take control pretty quickly, allowing him to lick into his mouth as he pleased, chasing back when enticed, allowing the nips to his lips, suckling Mickey's bottom lip whenever he caught it properly, alternating between deep slides of his lips to light presses as he turned his head. Mickey was dying, he was sure of it, breathing heavily through his nose and losing all stability in his legs as Ian pressed his thighs against Mickey's. Ian fisted Mickey's hair and pulled his head back a touch, sucking on his top lip this time before letting it go with a deep moan.

“ _Christ_ , your lips are so fucking soft Mickey, I could kiss you for hours and I'm not exaggerating, not even a little,” he breathed, eyes heavy and dark and Mickey panted, tracing the line of Ian's jaw with his fingers. He unconsciously licked his lips and felt himself flush a little at those words, at the way Ian's eyes followed his tongue's track. Most of the time his mouth only got praise when spitting threats and trash talk or when firm around some guys cock. He had never had them complimented so passionately before and it made him feel a little giddy around his middle.

“So why the fuck did you stop?”

“My feet are cramping up a bit,” he admitted with a small smile. “They know the feel of skate boots and are trying to remind me of what they are used for.”

“Shut up,” Mickey chuckled at Ian's dopey smirk and pulled him back down for another kiss, soft and teasing and with the barest of licks against lips until he felt like, if he didn't pull away, they'd end up heated and with sore ankles or fucking on the floor. He wanted the fucking on the floor, so bad, but he wasn't going to push it and Ian looked like a child when thinking about skating and he didn't want to kill his buzz just yet. His feet were buzzing too, but he wasn't about to tell Ian that. He pulled away and took a deep breath, slowly removing his hands and allowing Ian, who looked to be having some form in internal struggle with this, to pull away and readjust his coat before stepping back carefully. “Should go skate a bit, huh?”

“Yeah,” he moved close enough to hover by Mickey's ear. “Don't think I won't start kissing you after, Mickey,” Ian said hotly and Mickey almost snatched out and yanked him against his body again because _fuck_ , his name falling from those kiss swollen lips and said so needy drove a hot flush of blood to his groin.

“Fucking hell, sayin' shit like that's gonna get you in trouble,” Mickey exclaimed in a rush, quickly righting his own rumpled coat to follow the cheeky, grinning redhead through the cloakroom and out into the freezing hall the rink sat in the middle of. He was struck with a thought and snapped his fingers, “Forgot the dock.”

“Nah, I got it,” Ian held it aloft and pulled something from his pocket. “Turn your Pod on. I'll sync it with my playlist,” he stopped to open up the back and slip whatever he'd pulled from his pocket into the slot he'd opened up. Mickey figured, from the size of it, that it was some kind of a memory card or stick. He turned the Pod on and set up a his name, MickeyM this time, and snorted as Ian laughed at him, the 'moo' right on the cusp of falling from his puffy lips.

“Don't.”

“Wasn't,” within seconds, Mickey's Pod paired with TwinkleToes and the dock, booting up Ian's playlist. “You can just do your thing, I'll keep my sight on you and skate around you, if that's OK? I don't know what you'd normally do, but I like to move a lot. This way, I see you, you can skate knowing I'm not going to run into you or anything and I can worry about not falling on my ass. Fair?”

Mickey nodded and slid onto the ice while trying to plug his earphones in, “Yup. Sounds good to me.” He wasn't trying to sound uninterested or anything, he was just finding it hard to keep his mind clear and off of the lingering sensation of Ian's mouth against his, the hard line of his body and his warmth and smell. If he let it run riot in his head, he'd end up tripping or crashing. He was finding it hard enough to will his erection down as it was and where he would normally grab it and _breathe_ , he couldn't openly go grabbing his cock in front of Ian. Or maybe he could? “No,” he hissed to himself, _not on the ice_. The Pod beeped in his ears so he took a look at it as he upped the volume.

**Current Playlist – Ian Gallagher**

**The Hills – The Weekend**

As the music started playing, he idly spun along the ice, ignoring Ian completely even though he could see him skating around in his periphery. He trusted the ginger to keep his word and keep Mickey in his sight while he spun and flew around the edge of the rink, legs weaving and turning him in a dizzying amount of spins and turns. Mickey kept to the middle section, losing his mind in music and movement, calculating his skids and catching the ice to stop, heading back the other way to start again. He never wanted to try and mimic game play on his own, he couldn't without more men to duck and dodge around, and without the weight of his kit or stick in his hand it was impossible to feel like he _could_ do it. The songs melded and Ian moved around him like a dog after a ball, skating rings around Mickey's easy gliding while Mickey smiled knowing he was seeing the brilliance of the figure skater up close and personal. He wondered how many would fight him to be where he was right now, watching Ian whipping around with the biggest, face splitting smile he'd seen yet, ecstatic in what he was doing. Ian's contagious smile had Mickey chuckling at him, shaking his head as he kicked a little to slide more purposefully while Ian turned from facing back to facing forward and back again. He did a high kick, a powerful variation of a death drop, and Mickey felt his mouth water at the sight of his leg muscles bunching ridiculously in his jeans. How he hadn't torn them open was something of a marvel to Mickey.

**Sweet Harmony (Levantine Remix) – The Beloved.**

Mickey snorted and tugged an earphone free, catching Ian smiling as he shot around him backwards, pulling an earbud free at Mickey's wave, “90's music? Your playlist is like Aladdin's fucking cave man."

“Right?” Ian grinned, circling him again, gradually closing in until he was right in front of Mickey, breathless and red cheeked. “Dance with me?”

“What?” Mickey was taken aback by such a request and shook his head, “Don't dance.”

“OK. Skate with me then?” Ian was a smart ass and had Mickey bending to his will with one bright smile and touch to his neck. He took Mickey's hand and pulled him along while the music played in his ear. “What kind of speed do you have? I don't want to move in a way that has you getting hurt.”

“OK, Bolt, if you can catch me, then I'll skate whichever way you like so long as you don't go tryin' to fuckin' throw me or some shit. A'ight?” Mickey made sure his eyebrows rose to the correct _I ain't fucking playing around_ height and Ian nodded, smiling, and let go of his hand. Mickey wasted no time, but faked a stretch to throw Ian off, pressing his feet hard and skating off like he was chasing down a puck or some asshole who needed taking out at the knees. Mickey knew that his kit helped him gain speed most of the time but he knew he was quick otherwise and it was evident as Ian laughed and followed him. The song bled out and Mickey popped an eyebrow as he glanced around to see where the redhead was, yelling in surprise to find him reaching out to get a handful of Mickey's coat. Ian was clearly faster, the long-legged, stream-lined fucker, but Mickey had made him work to catch up.

Ian was laughing and panting, “Gotcha.”

Mickey slowed and let Ian pull them together to avoid crashing, tucking against his back and Mickey sucked in deep as his ass locked nicely into bowl of Ian's pelvis, and what a perfect thing _that_ was. It wasn't long before he was turning Mickey so he could face him with a hand on his hip and the other around his wrist. The music was slow and Mickey felt his eyes roll, he knew the music well. **Massive Attack, Teardrop**. Was this something random, something purposely picked – he hadn't seen Ian pull out his Pod – or something Ian actually did a routine to? That, he would watch, gladly. Ignoring the urge to scoff as Ian pulled them up to a stop to begin turning them in a small circle, Mickey helped to turn them steadily, pushing into his leg every now and then. It was very intimate and Mickey felt out of sorts about it but Ian had caught him fair and square, so he resisted the urge to pull away when Ian tugged him closer, breathing against the side of his face and touching his cheek to Mickey's temple.

“Ian?” Mickey whispered, though he needn't, but it felt right not to ruin the little bubble they were in. Ian hummed and placed Mickey's hand on his waist, freeing his hand to hold the back of Mickey's neck. “This isn't skating or dancing or whatever it is you wanted to do.”

“Are we not on the ice, wearing _ice-skates_ and movin', Mick?” Ian hushed back to him and Mickey could both hear and feel his damn smirk. He declined to answer but pulled his face back enough to shoot him a warning glare. Ian laughed at him and Mickey found his focus honing in until all that matter was the skater holding him tightly, his smile, his eyes, his hair and the pink band across his nose. It was like some epic moment in a film where eyes meet and fuck all else exists any more. He both hated and really fucking liked this guy and it was doing his head no favours, even more so with Ian _slow dancing_ with him to music only they could hear, holding him close like Mickey was the love of his life. The thought made Mickey shiver violently and Ian pressed closer still, his fingers moving in soothing circles and strokes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey groaned, reaching up to grip Ian's neck and haul him down for a kiss, catching his bottom lip between his own and issuing kiss after kiss to his soft mouth until he opened up and let him lick inside. Mickey's heart banged against his chest wall and his ears whistled with white noise when Ian's grabby hand knocked the other earbud out on its route into his hair.

“Need to get off the ice,” Ian managed to get out, pushing his feet a little to get them moving in the direction he wanted, never letting go of Mickey who trusted him to guide them and held his legs firm, going along for the ride, Ian nosing behind his ear with small noises of pleasure. Mickey was off the ice first, turning to grab a hold of Ian's hands as soon as he was stepping one foot onto the sort floor, Mickey pulling him until he was encasing his waist with his arms.

“Not usually like this,” Mickey assured while holding onto Ian's shoulder and the back of his neck, kissing along his jaw while the redhead stumbled along with his insistent pulling.

“Oh?”

“Nope. You've broken me,” Mickey smirked, teasing Ian and getting a snort for it.

“Then allow me to piece you back together with the utmost care and attention,” Ian purred, his grin lascivious and Mickey licked his lip.

“Insufferable dork,” such a clichéd asshole, this one. “Gonna kiss me or what?” Mickey tongued the corner of his mouth and raised one eyebrow, tempting the vision that was pressing against him firmly again, Ian's eyes dark on his own, holding him prisoner. Ian hummed and moved just enough to unzip both of their coats, flicking them aside while making a strangled noise in his throat as he backed Mickey against the nearest wall and stole his breath. Mickey decided that, if nothing else, he'd be happy just kissing this man for the entirety of the Games because with every press of his lips, lick of his tongue, slide of his mouth and sharp inhale through his nose, Ian was slowly breaking Mickey down into a pile of ash. His hands snaked around Mickey's hips and without the cover of his thick coat, he could feel the chill of Ian's palms where they gripped his sides, thumbing at the dip of his hipbones and pulling him ever closer. Mickey broke the kiss to look at where his own hands could go, slipping one into Ian's hair because damn, he felt a rush of power in being able to bend the tall skater down to his mouth, and the other up his back to bunch the fabric of his thermal long sleeve top between his shoulder blades. The soft fabric allowed Mickey to feel the shift and slide of Ian's back muscles when ducking his head to nose along Mickey's jaw.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian hissed, knocking Mickey's boots with his to spread his knees and slip his thigh between his legs, sucking on Mickey's neck and plastering his entire front to him. Mickey was a panting, groaning mess where he stood, barely, on shaking legs, fisting bright red hair and trying his hardest not to hump the powerful thigh he loved to stare at and drool over.

“Part of me knows for a fucking fact that guard is making tracks down to us 'cause lady luck turned on me once I accepted I like dick,” Mickey moaned, fighting the roll of his pelvis as Ian sucked and licked and mauled his neck with his teeth, huffing and whimpering into Mickey's ear. “The other part reckons it'd be fine to fuck on the bench, thinks – _uh_ God, _fuck_!” Ian didn't fight his urge and Mickey felt a little light-headed with the hard press of his cock against his hip, sliding his hand from Ian's shoulder to his lower back to feel the movement of his thrusts. “ _Oh_ god. It thinks, give the fucker an eyeful,” he gasped when fingers pulled the neck of his top away and teeth grazed his collarbone, the pressure in his groin building up and up the harder Ian rolled his hips, the louder he grunted, the more broken his moans came out, the heat of him, the wet lick of his tongue and the fierce grip he had on Mickey's waist. He was everywhere, burning Mickey and drowning him and winding him up so tight. It was the most intense dry humping session Mickey had ever had but he wasn't sure if that was to do with the kissing or just _Ian_. Louie was right about the skater; he _was_ really nice, his voice, his eyes, his joyful personality even when he was being sceptical and calculating and hard-faced, and so easy to like. Mickey knew right then, as his mouth was recaptured and loved to the point of pins and needles, that he was fucked and he _wanted_. Oh, he wanted.

Ian pulled back with a grunt, dopey eyed and breathing hard, “You taste so nice. So good. I want to keep on tasting every fucking part of you. Jesus Mick, you smell amazing,” Ian's moaning voice had Mickey struggling to get air in, wanting to retort that that lovely taste and smell was most likely the mandarin shower gel he kept in his kit bag. He grabbed Ian's jaw and tipped his head back, wanting in on the taste testing, and quickly latched his puffy lips to Ian's thick, pale throat for a good licking, sucking, kiss-and-bite session while Ian continued to fucked against his hip, urging Mickey's hips to pump with his. He kept breathing out broken moans as Mickey held him by his hair and scraped his teeth over his pulse, his hands squeezing Mickey's hips, forcing him to ride his thigh. “Mi...Mickey, Jesus, OK. Mickey. _Mick_.”

“Hmm?” Mickey was too busy suckling the slope of where neck met shoulder to really notice the desperate note in Ian's voice. He tasted so nice, _so_ good.

“I don't know about you,” Ian breathed, forcing Mickey's hand so he could look at him and Mickey groaned so low and deep that he was a little rocked by how he sounded. He sounded wrecked. Ian _looked_ wrecked, his hips rolling hard and stilted and his throat patterned with bites. “Gonna come, Mickey, I am, fu-”

“Fuck, go on,” Mickey growled, attacking Ian's mouth and licking his way in, swallowing the moaning riot that Ian released when Mickey pressed his hand into his lower back again and urged him to grind harder. Ian tore his mouth away not a second later and screwed up his face, Mickey watching with rapt fascination until Ian dove into the crook of his neck, forcing his chin up so he could breathe into his skin, tonguing and scraping his teeth with a broken grunt, his hips slowing and his entire frame going rigid. “Holy shit.”

“Uh, I'm sorry, I couldn't hold it off,” Ian said quietly when he'd regained some composure though he stayed buried in Mickey's neck, kissing and sucking his skin. “C'mon tough guy, ride my thigh, come because of me.”

Ian's voice was so fucking destroyed that Mickey cursed again, bit his own lip and got back to humping his leg feverishly, accepting the kisses and allowing tugging hands to slip around to cup his ass, squeezing and kneading the handfuls Ian managed to get. _Giant_ fucking hands. His mind suddenly flooded with the image of those hands against his bare skin, the fingers those hands had slipping up inside him, tapping and teasing the way open for Ian himself.

Ian seemed to be having similar thoughts for he broke the kiss and nibbled Mickey's ear as his breathing sped up and grew heavier, punching out of Mickey, “I'm going to enjoy fingering this ass open, I can feel how plump it is, hard underneath the soft flesh. Fuck Mickey, I want to take you apart. _Bad_.” The filthy mouth on this man had Mickey's mind reeling and his balls drawing up like a punch.

“Oh sh- _fuck_!” Mickey barely got any air in and held what he had, forcing it out with the body spasms his orgasm smashed him with, ever aware of Ian smiling into his neck and peppering him with kisses. He never did like coming in his underwear as it cooled quickly and stayed like a wet, slimy gob of gel that grew itchier and more irritating the longer he left it. Ian disallowed him to scowl over it, to think about it, for he stole another deep kiss, holding Mickey's jaw as he calmed his breathing right down.

“You good?” he asked quietly and Mickey gave a nod, swallowing, needing a damn bucket of water after that. Ian continued to kiss along his jaw and throat, his voice low and rumbling against Mickey's chest, “Much as I would love to wind you up again and kiss you until my mouth refuses to work, it's getting on and we have a hike and you have a game tomorrow, don't you. We should head out maybe?”

“Uh. _Fuckin' Christ_. Sounds good and yeah, first game, got to rest and take a bath. My legs are like slinkies,” Mickey muttered a laugh, stealing his own kiss before Ian moved away from him, taking the heat and leaving the icy air of the rink to slip inside Mickey's clothes. He zipped up his coat and hummed when Ian ducked in for another kiss, fighting to stop himself from taking it further, resting their foreheads together for a moment.

“Come on then,” he winked and hooked his arm around Mickey's shoulders so they could wobble on unsteady, bladed feet together. Once they had gotten their shoes on and skates packed away, Mickey found his eyes drawn to Ian constantly as he walked beside him with easy strides of his long legs, smiling softly in his own world. The guard on the desk jumped at the sight of them, flushing furiously and muttering apologies for having forgotten they were even there, and then they were outside again in the quiet of the snow, hiking to the ski lift in comfortable silence, bumping shoulders and smiling. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Mickey wondered, hoping to God the guy wasn't thanking him for dry humping him into coming in his boxers. Ian swiped at his arm and laughed a little.

“For inviting me along. I guess you don't usually have company, could tell by the fact that Louie was absent and when you were skating, you were completely zoned out, relaxed and peaceful. I'm really happy you let me in on that, so thank you, for sharing that part of yourself with me. Was really nice,” Ian said, his voice sincere and sweet and Mickey gave him a small smile, nudging against him before entering the station and corralling the skater onto a ski-lift bench quickly.

At the other end of the line, Mickey having gone stiff in his seat from the height because he absolutely loathed the lifts and would have walked if Ian wasn't with him, he touched Ian's elbow before they made it to where other people would hear, where their little bubble was going to have to burst for the night, “Wouldn't have wanted to share that with anyone else. So, you know, you're welcome to come with me any time, and not because you kissed me into coming against your leg.” He felt like some crushing idiot, but he knew that's what he was turning into anyway. Fuck if he cared. He wasn't a frightened boy any more, he was man with his own mind, in charge of his own life, his own decisions. His cock was his to command and his heart was his to lease out if he wanted.

Ian's face lit up and Mickey chuckled, his chest warming when Ian kissed his cheek softly, “I'd like to see you when it's possible. I know you have a game tomorrow and I have my first skate late afternoon so... Text me?”

“Course,” Mickey said softly, nodding and cuffing Ian's shoulder with his fist lightly. Mickey headed off towards the hotel with Ian bouncing along next to him, not even hiding his smile and Mickey found that he never wanted to see him without it, not if he could help it. It took all of his willpower not to kiss Ian in the lift as it stopped on his floor as other competitors were in there with him, but the cheeky, sly grin he was flashed before the doors closed told him Ian was in the same boat, and fuck if that didn't make Mickey feel giddy and dazed. Mickey felt the tendrils of addiction setting in as he walked to his door and he licked his teeth, grinning at his reflection in the window as he passed. Smug bastard, _just look at those bites_. He was going to have _hell_ off his team tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. 
> 
> I had to stop and it's a shitty ending, but if i didnt, id keep going until you had a billion freakin words to read. it gets away from me....


	6. All Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has a private moment, a war with Italy and three round fight with Lucifer's twisted minions: team USA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went away from what i had planned but ho hum, more to write :D thank you for the love you guys, you're a-fucking-mazing! Warning: fighting, slurs, taunting (but it's not meant in a bad way, might come off as) and MASTURBATION. yes. you heard me. now, Lucifer has stayed back to take us all to hell with him because a) i wrote the hand lovin', b) YOU read it. Let's a-go!! (fuck season 6, right? FUCK. IT. ALL. imsomadaboutitdontevengetmestarted!)

 

Mickey woke on his front, snuggling the pillow he had claimed for cuddling whilst asleep and loving that the thermostat had woken up before him so that his bare back wasn't chilling. The quilts were tangled around his waist and knees and his boxers were teetering on getting stuck up his ass but the pillow was soft, his mattress was blissful and he was warm and dopey, so he cared little about a wedgie. His phone was dancing its wake up routine on the coffee table, screaming at him to get up. He did so, once the noise had become utterly ear splitting and murder worthy, putting on a robe with a jaw aching yawn. He sleepily stumbled around the kitchenette to make a coffee, rubbing at his eyes and cursing everything he could think of just because. A knock at his door made Mickey tip his head back and groan because who the fuck? At 5:30 in the damn morning?

The knocking came again and Mickey childishly dragged his tired and achy legs to the door, opening it slowly to reveal a barely-awake Louie with his hair stuck up on the left side of his head. “Good morning,” Louie mumbled, trying a smile but losing it rather quick to a yawn.

“No, it isn't. Coffee Lou?” Mickey yawned, huffing after his jaw clicked and Louie chuckled. Infectious yawns could kiss his ass. He motioned his friend in and Louie smiled, kissing his temple.

“Yeah, a litre of it please?” Louie shut the door and pushed his kit and bag further in with his foot, plodding to sit on the bar stool to watch Mickey fuss with the coffee machine.

“Why so early man? Thought we weren't required downstairs until 7?” Mickey yawned again and very nearly dropped the mug in his hand with the after-shiver it gave him.

Louie sniffed and propped his chin in his hand, twitching his nose like he had an itch, “I woke up at like, 4 or something like that, for reasons unknown. Figured you be getting up around now, which I am very right about, so I thought I'd come and grace you with my amazing presence. Don't you just love my thoughtfulness, bro?”

Mickey sighed and rubbed his eye in the face of Louie's grin, “God, too fuckin' early man. Turn yourself off, or lower your cheerful setting for the next hour or something. S'too early, really is,” he fought back another yawn and popped a latte capsule in the machine, letting it get to work while he pressed his lower back against the counter. The effect of it was instant; his heart sped up and his groin flashed hot, seeping down his thighs, and all too quick Mickey was forced to wake _the fuck_ up and move away from the side, staring at it suspiciously. Ian. Kissing Ian. Ian kissing him while holding him against a counter. Ian kissing him while pinning him to a wall and-

“Mick?” Louie broke him out of his thoughts and Mickey leapt away from the cupboards and yanked the fridge open, looking for a beer or a portal to vanish through. Instead he found milk he didn't really want, a tiny little carton, but he pulled it out anyway and felt less stupid for it when he shook it lightly at Louie in question and Louie gave a nod. Thank fuck. “Seriously bro, you've gone so... cherry in the face, whoa, you alright there? Sick or something?”

“Remembered exactly what we gotta do today, that's all,” Mickey lied through his teeth, busying his hands with the latte for a moment, multitasking with the milk and putting his own capsule in and sorting his mug out. God _damn_ Gallagher and his stupid body and his stupid flawless, cream-pale face and sea-green eyes and his fucking soft lips-

“Mickey, seriously, are you feeling sick?” again, sounding very alert and concerned, Louie saved his dignity by interrupting his thoughts, eyeing Mickey while he dazedly poured the milk. He jumped when he realised that he had been pouring it the entire time and had flooded the mug and gotten it all over the side and down the cupboard doors. He swore under his breath and dug out some kitchen paper to mop it up, ignoring Louie where he sat watching Mickey's every move.

“I think I'm still half asleep. Need a shower. You OK to finish making these if I go take one? Yeah, cool, thanks man,” Mickey spoke so quickly that Louie could only nod and give him a very peculiar look as Mickey dropped the soggy paper on the floor and power walked out of the main room to lock himself in his bathroom. “Jesus fucking hell,” he hissed, leaning on the marbled counter so he could stare at his own face in the mirror; he was rosy cheeked and a heavy flush hung around his collarbone like a rash and, paired with his bed-hair and the light bruising on his face, yeah, he did look ill. But he wasn't and he glared down at his dick for being inconsiderate and spontaneous, waking up like that and lighting up his brain with those memories with Louie sitting at the breakfast bar in front of him. The fact that Louie was still sitting out there annoyed Mickey's irritable state further because he really wanted to take his time in the shower, time to strip away his sexual tension to those very memories, but he knew he was loud and Louie would hear him. Mickey was already surprised Louie hadn't worked it out, but then he hadn't appeared to have spotted the marks up Mickey's throat.

“Thank god for robes and their collars of concealment,” Mickey smiled to himself in the mirror, tugging the material down to look properly and he grinned, turning his face to get a good look. Ian had decorated him good and proper, red and deep purple nicks and little ovals littering Mickey's skin like fingerprints, not overly big considering the width of Ian's mouth, but there was no mistaking what they were. Not at all. Mickey pressed them lightly and moaned when the dull ache snapped his mind right back to the moment Ian's rolling tongue had sucked the blood to the surface, _exactly_ when he had felt the sting, reminding him of what Ian had been doing with the rest of his body too. It was like someone was playing a video in front of him in the mirror, so vivid was the memory, and he groaned in his dreamy state, hanging his head as his fingers found another mark.

“Mick?”

Shit. “Yeah?” Mickey called, his voice thick and low and he coughed to try and regain his usual tone somewhat, forcefully removing his hand and messing with the bottles on the side.

“You OK man?”

“Yeah, I slipped. Bashed my elbow, you know, the funny bone bit. Not fuckin' funny, hurts like a bitch,” Mickey made sure he hissed through his teeth nice and loud for Louie to hear. Louie laughed and muttered something like _OK dork_ , leaving Mickey alone, or so he hoped. There was no way he could wank in the shower, no way, absolutely not, not with Louie's hyper-hearing. With a sigh and a scowl at his reflection, Mickey barked at the shower to turn on and set it to cool with a sharp and powerful spray to force his dick back to sleep and his arousal deep down, to his feet preferably. As he stripped, he noticed how loud the shower was with the door open and gave the bathroom door a curious glance, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip and then he caught his face in the mirror. Grinning, Mickey went and sat on the edge of the bath – what a glorious bath it was, bubble jets and swirls that had loved his legs before bed, soothing them to a dull soreness – and took his cock in hand, twisting to snatch up the wash cloth to bite down on in the hopes it kept his noises at least quieter than the sound of the shower. Spreading his feet, Mickey got to stroking, fondling his balls and tickling what he could of his perineum and ass cheeks to get himself off as quickly as he possibly could, closing his eyes and giving his memory bank full reign. Ian's moans filled his head first, from the soft, gasped ones to the low and drawn ones he had made when he had his mouth open a little to bite at Mickey's skin or lips, and the hard, sharp grunts and groans Ian had made when on the cusp of coming against Mickey, _because_ of Mickey. The wash cloth got spat out and Mickey shifted on the bath, settling as close to not-sitting on it as he could so he could put the hand not tugging his cock on the opposing lip of the bath so that he could lean himself back.

“Juh...Jesus,” he whispered, cracking open an eye to stare at the door for a second, speeding up his hand. Ian's mouth filled his mind as he tore his hand away to lick it slippery, barely containing the grunt that burst out of his mouth when resuming his stripping. He suddenly regretted spitting the cloth out because his moaning and grunting was not a thing he could control once he started, he knew it, his bed partners had known it – _like Pringles, once you pop, you can't stop_ one asshole had sassed. Gritting his teeth, he wondered what Ian would do if he got a hold of his cock, twisting on the upstroke like he did, or maybe he would do long, slow strokes that broke into fast tugging every so many? Mickey liked that, but his hand wasn't quite big enough to give him the full satisfaction of that motion and it had always felt much better when some other guy had done it to him. Ian had big hands. He also had a deliciously soft, red set of lips and a tongue that he knew how to use, too.

Mickey tongued his own lips open, _ahhhing_ like he was suffering a smarting cut somewhere while fighting to both shut his mouth and keep it open to pant, picturing Ian's mouth in place of his hand, that porcelain face looking so flushed, so innocent in comparison to the skill that man had, to the colour of Mickey's flushed cock whetting his lips fat and puffy, stretching his mouth taut and making his eyes damp and gleaming. _Fuck_ , those eyes of Ian's, Jesus - Mickey moaned real loud as they flashed and fluttered under heavy lashes in his mind, sparkling cheekily, darkening to a deep jaded hue as the pupils blew out and Ian's moan hit him hard, the one he had made when he came and scraped his teeth along Mickey's neck, pressing tight against Mickey like he was trying to absorb himself into Mickey. Mickey's harsh grunting tried to break free and he clamped his mouth shut tight, breathing harshly through his nose and dicing with a light head as his orgasm ripped through him with a burning, ecstatic wave of pleasure.

“O-ah shhh- _fuck_. Me. _Jesus_!” Mickey breathed as he twitched repeatedly, almost tipping forward completely to greet the floor, his hand tight around his pulsing shaft while the other was clawing at his cramping abdomen. His backside hurt from sitting on the lip of the bathtub and his knees and ankles burned but he gave no thought to them as he unwrapped his wet fingers and stretched them out, grinning filthily to himself upon seeing his come on the grey floor. Jesus, if he got his hands on Ian, and Ian's on him, with _intention_ – he would wreck the redhead, or Ian would destroy him. No doubt about it. He gave himself a minute before cleaning off in the sink, wiping the floor, and then he was turning up the heat of the shower to wash quickly and efficiently. He had wasted enough time as it was and Louie _would_ break down the door if he thought he needed to, so he was done within minutes and wandering into his bedroom in a towel.

“Latte's done. S'probably cold now though, so don't bitch,” Louie called from the sofas, watching something brightly coloured and animated and eating something crunchy.

“Shut your fucking mouth when you eat, Christ man,” Mickey gave him a disgusting stare as he passed the break in the wall on the way to his closet, tearing out his uniform. His kit bag was packed and ready at the foot of the bed with his stick, and he was glad he'd done it last night. Mickey dropped his towel and fished for some boxers in his suitcase as Louie sprung into the bedroom area and whistled.

“ _Oh_ but that is a _fine_ booty, cutie,” he winked, chewing whatever he had found with a grin. Mickey snorted and made sure not to turn until he had his shorts up, middle finger at the ready. Louie folded his arms and began to really eye Mickey up, making him flush and turn his back on him, shaking out his t-shirt, “I'm serious, you got a fuckin' nice ass man, skating has shaped you up good, boy. Christ look at it, so snug in those boxers. Don't even get me started on your thighs Mick, _oh my god-”_

“Fucking douche, shut up,” Mickey sighed, feeling himself flush hot at Louie's blatant flirting. Louie knew which buttons to press, what charm to switch on when it came to Mickey. Still, he was relentless and a simple bark had no effect on the blond fool. Mickey shifted and shuffled around, avoiding turning around for as long as possible, knowing Louie was grinning at him like a wolf.

“I remember when we started up on the rookie team all those years ago, you were a straggly stream of piss compared to the rest of us. Now though? Powerful moo, your bod is _nice_ – what?! God, you not like compliments?”

Mickey doubled up the strength of his middle finger and grumbled, “Not when they are at 6 in the fuckin' morning and out of your mouth, you nasty, half chewing, half spraying _my_ pretzels, leering, flirting asshole. Stop checking me out, it's weird when I can't fuckin' tell if you're playing around or actually serious. Jeez, go watch your cartoons you big ass baby.”

“Anime, dickface,” Louie sneered which Mickey mocked back at him, making the blond roll his eyes and take himself back into the living area. “I was serious though, but chill, a'ight? I ain't about banging you. I can cop a feel any time baby... but, I bet you'd rather the eye-fuckery and complimentary commentary came out of a mouth that sat pretty on a freckled face, huh?”

Mickey sighed heavily and dressed. God Louie was a charming shit sometimes. “Big words for you, bud, you been reading the subtitles? And he hasn't got any freckles, idiot. Like mine, they come out when it's sunny, and if you haven't fucking seen, it's not summer, Lou,” he said while yanking up his tracksuit bottoms.

“You get nice and cosy during that talk then, bro?” Louie's voice was so full of innuendo that Mickey groaned. Leaving his jacket unzipped, Mickey picked up his bag and stick and dumped them next to Louie's by the door, turning to his grinning friend with his arms crossed and his eyebrows drawn up. It wasn't like Louie could get any worse after that, so he took a breath and summoned hell, Louie Fael first.

“Know you got a good fuckin' look just, but aside from my bottom half you pervert, did you _look_ at me?” Mickey asked and Louie frowned, “Why don't you take a look again.”

Louie narrowed his eyes and stood up, advancing when Mickey tipped his chin up and exposed his throat, “Fuck me sideways, you never had _those_ yesterday. When did this happen? It was Ian, right? Hope you gave as good as you got- hold the fucking phone, whoa my _god_ , you fucked him!” Louie gasped, tipping Mickey's face this way and that to get a good look, pushing the collar of his jacket away and tugging his t-shirt down to eye his collarbone with a brilliant smile.

“Christ, OK. Eh, yo, calm your tits for goodness sake,” Mickey chuckled, pushing Louie back when he began to paw at his ear to look at the mark just under it by Mickey's jaw hinge. “It _was_ Ian, yes I gave as good, no I didn't fuck him and it happened last night. I went to do my wind down thing and he went with me because he wanted to hang out, s'why he was in the hall last night, to come ask me if I wanted to 'hang out', and I _can't_ fucking resist the bastard, _at all_. The talk we had in the shelter, you thought he wanted to kiss me, right?”

“Yeah,” Louie started grinning, barely blinking as Mickey awkwardly explained himself, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his feet, his hands doing the talking with the amount they moved. He hated Louie's attentional focus sometimes. Most of the time. Fucking hyperactive Hawkeye.

“Well, thanks to _you_ , he text me and said as much. I told him he should have done, because thinkin' on it, I really wished he had, you know? Anyways, we get to the place and Gallagher springs a kiss on me like he couldn't stop himself. So, uh, we had a make out session. Nothing else so stop fucking looking at me like that! You know I'd tell you if we banged, shithead.”

Louie looked positively giddy, like he was ready to burst with excitement, smiling so much his eyes were near slits, “You kissed him more than once? Jesus, he must be good, I know you and your kissing rule. Oh my god Mick! _Dude_! You dog!” he gushed, shoving Mickey's shoulder, excessively more pleased by this turns of events than Mickey was which was something. “You guys are freakin' adorable, making out and shit,” he gave Mickey a light punch to the shoulder, “Knew you liked him more than a bro. I'm real happy for you Mick, it's nice to see you getting to know someone like him. He's not like that one cunt you dated last year-”

“Nobody is that much of a prick, Lou, only that fuckbag,” Mickey agreed with hard swipe of his hand in front of him, stifling Louie's anger on the subject before he could begin to rage. “I do like Gallagher, he's alright. So, yeah, thanks, I guess, for pushing him on me in your shittily subtle way.”

Louie shyly screwed up his face and shoved Mickey lightly again, “Shut up, you know I love you. Just want you happy when you aren't knee deep in sport and, much as they are hot as fuck, the females are highly strung and I know you don't like them like that. Besides, if _I_ want to ride Ian Gallagher into the floor, there's no way you'd resist him bro, abso-fucking-lutely no way, and he seems to really fucking like you as well. Gets all cow-eyed whenever you're not looking at him, thinks no one sees, but I see. Louie sees all.”

Mickey smiled dirtily and gave Louie a wet kiss on his cheek, checking the time and seeing they had half an hour before they needed to leave so he went to fix a fresh latte, leaving Louie to moon and swoon on the stool with his chin propped up again. “You gonna fuck him later then?” Mickey dropped his mug and bounced the latte capsule off of Louie's guffawing face with an angry _shut the fuck up Louie_ , growling while his asshole best friend laughed himself stupid.

 

Mickey felt sick. Sick to his stomach with nerves as he always did when waiting in line to walk out to the bench at the start of a match in front of a massive crowd, to butt heads with another team. Only this time, it wasn't some stadium back in the US, this was the motherfucking Olympic Games and the team wasn't some team they knew shit about, this was Italy. Italy were rumoured as hard balling, puck stealing, body slamming players that honest-to-god put a touch of cold fear in Mickey's chest. So far Mickey had managed to view it all as nothing more than being back home, but now the reality of it was bearing down on him like a deadly hurricane that was threatening to scare him half to death and send him running.

“Mick, come here a sec?” Bart snapped his head to a spot away from the other guys chattering in the changing room. Mickey got up and joined his captain and felt bile stick in his throat. “You look scared shitless man, you doing OK?”

“Nah. It's just,” Mickey took a deep breath to calm his shaking and looked Bart in the eye, losing himself in his deep brown irises to he could feel grounded. “It's fucking terrifying, Bart, what if we fuck it up and ruin our chances at a medal and the glory shit that comes with it, huh? We've played like a bunch of idiots so far and these guys are supposedly hardcore and I... look. I'm just really nervous, real scared right now. S'all it is.”

Bart pulled him into quick hug, tight and hard before he let go and held Mickey's neck tight, “I know man, same boat here. It's a big thing, but if we play like we did this morning then we got a good chance at doing some damage. All you gotta think is that it's a team back home, in Canada or LA or something, right? Forget where we are, forget they are European, forget the medal. Just focus on putting up a good fucking fight Mickey, that's what I've told these guys, and I mean it. If we win, halle-fucking-lujah! If we lose, we go home to our own teams and we pick up our asses and rise through it, just like we always do, and come back fighting in 2022. Just fight, Mick. Show them Mikhaylo Milkovich means fucking business.”

Mickey smiled and tipped himself to knock his head against Bart's, their own friendly gesture, and moved off to join the line of their team mates that gathered by the door that lead to the tunnel of the rink. The music playing outside was loud and the noise of the crowd was a dull hum, though it may as well sound like a swarm of hornets for how it effected each man. Louie was jumping and raring to go and getting so antsy that Shaun had to hold him still with a hand on his elbow, muttering something in his ear with a smirk. Mickey thought for a split second that Louie was going smack Shaun, but then he roared a laugh and shoved him playfully.

The doors opened to reveal a referee, the noise deafening in the arena now, the crowd getting excited as _Welcome to the ice: Italy!_ was shouted out of the speakers, and Mickey's entire body buzzed with swirling snakes and butterflies. “Gentlemen, 30 seconds.”

“Fuck, oh shit, fucking fuck!” Seth breathed excitedly, shaking his arms and legs and cracking his neck, grinning back to Mickey and Bart from behind his face guard.

“I am so ready for this!” Milo said resolutely.

“I fuckin' ain't,” Mickey laughed, though it was pained and barely there, and all of his team turned to stare at him in utter silence. He swallowed and pulled his helmet on.

“The hell, Mick?” Seth asked, worried.

“What's up with you bro?” Louie asked in a small voice and Mickey eyed them all, feeling bad for feeling the way he did because they all seemed to look up to him and Bart. He understood that it probably wasn't great if one of the strongest players was frightened like a little girl and he'd feel seriously concerned if Bart was acting like he was.

“Just- Jesus _Christ_ don't all look like I shot your mom's for fucks sake! I'm just nervous, s'a big thing a'ight?”

“Yeah, we get that,” David said dryly and winking when Mickey flared his nose and licked his lips. Asshole. “But we're all in this together, right? It's just a game. Nothing more, nothing less. You got ours backs, we got yours, you hear?”

“Yeah Mickey, we got you,” Milo reassured.

“We fuckin' do, we got our Mickey, right lads?” Seth called to which the whole team yelled their affirmation, making Mickey feel instantly better. He loved these losers so much. Bart bumped him from behind and Mickey swatted at his hip as the doors opened and in walked Thompson, grinning and bursting with energy.

“Ready ladies?”

“Fuck yeah!” the team screamed at him and Mickey found himself grinning quite evilly indeed. He was feeling it, slowly seeping in, his adrenaline feeding off of his team-mates energy.

“You gonna show 'em what Uncle Sam is packin'?”

“Yes coach!”

“You each go out there and fuckin' own what you do individually, I'll guide you like a motherfucking mother duck and together, we'll smash these fuckers out of the running!” Thompson punched the air with power and riled his team up to the point of battle cries and shoving one another. Mickey was no longer nervous, he was foaming at the mouth and his blood was running as light-speed through his veins. Thompson turned to look through the door and nodded, “Let's go mowers, time to cut Italian grass!” he yelled, ushering them out.

The noise was so overwhelming that Mickey almost bolted straight back inside to the safety of the changing room, but the raw feeling of excitement kept pushing him until he was yanking off his guards and launching into the rink like a bullet – _Welcome to the ice: The United States of America!_ The resulting cheer was insane - constantly telling himself he was at home, this was just a regular game. Nothing more. He refused to look up as he gave a formal sort of wave to the crowd, ignoring them for the most part so he could get his focus centred and himself into position. The captains shook hands, the puck was placed and the battle started in a snap. Mickey was off, like Greg, circling the ice and keeping his eyes peeled, his wits about him, his focus on his guys and the ones shadowing him. Nothing escaped his sight and he completely zoned himself, losing the sound of the crowd to his own internal soundtrack of curses and insults whenever he latched onto someone he didn't like the look of. The majority of his play was ducking and intercepting, guarding and recovering the puck if it came into his area. He'd been walled twice, not hard enough to warrant a fistfight and not soft enough to have him giggling either, but he didn't allow those hits to wreck his game. When his shoulder got clipped after Louie scored, Mickey turned and squared up straight off the bat, right in the dudes face because fuck this guy, fuck him with a hockey stick six ways to Sunday.

“You fucking watch where you're going, asshole,” he snapped, baring his teeth. The Italian player merely snorted and pushed back, chest to chest with Mickey. This guy had almost knocked Louie into the wall, tried to trip David and tried a check on Jake. Mickey was ready, his heart pounding and his fingers itching to smack his smile off. Just because this fucker didn't play by the rules, didn't mean Mickey was the same, and he had bided his time, waiting, watching always.

“Oh yes? It is the bulldog, isn't it? We heard about the Englishman smashing you like potatoes. Maybe you should put yourself on a leash and let the big boys play, hm?” the guy sneered. The fuck was this bulldog, pitbull bullshit all about anyway? Mickey lost it; he dropped his stick and tore off his gloves, the other guy following suit.

Mickey seethed, “You wanna go, punk? Wanna see how fuckin' much this doggy can put you through a goddamn window, huh?”

“Of course, fucker, I've been waiting for this, to try you out for size.” Much as he wanted to point out that he and Mickey were exactly the same size, Mickey a touch wider in the shoulders, Mickey only growled and shoved him back to put his fists up.

“Then fuckin' come right at me, bitch, woof woof!” Mickey ducked the swing and aimed his FUCK right between the other players eyes. They grappled and spun in a circle, aware that the referees were surrounding them, waiting for them to tire out and resume play. Greg had already had two fist fights and Milo had taken a player out for hooking, landing them both in the box. Isaacs had had a five minute wrestling match in his goal with a player who had failed to stop himself and took out Isaacs net - you _don't_ touch Oliver's baby. Mickey swiped and caught the guy's helmet and grunted when he got a hard punch to his side.

“Pathetic little queer boy, hits just like a girl.” _so dead_.

With those words hushed into his ear, Mickey saw red and swung with a varied litany of the word _fuck_ coming from his snarling mouth; he punched left, right, left, left, right, right, headbutt. The guy went down to his knees with a shout.

“That supposed to be an insult? Some girls I know would have you pissing yourself with one fucking punch, asshole. Same goes for the _gay men_ I know too, fuckhead,” Mickey spat on the ice and snatched up his stick and gloves, taking himself to the box without argument. He got a two minute penalty and death stares from the players of the Italian team sitting on the bench. He didn't give a shit, not one, motherfucker had it coming being a slur throwing dickhead with no clue as to what Mickey had hidden under all of his padding. Not pathetic, not in any way. It wasn't long until the match was over, he knew it, so he took his two minutes and used them to rest a little as his legs ached and his back was sore, drink some water from the many bottles sitting in the cooler in there and cast his eyes around the arena. They needed one more goal to win. Just one. Normally they would be beating the other side by miles, but these, as Mickey could see, were not regular run of the mill hockey players. Like his team, they were the best of the best. Too bad they couldn't fucking fight like the best, all bruised and bloodied from team USA's heat seeking fists. Mickey smiled nastily to an Italian sub that wouldn't stop staring at him and stuck his tongue out, rolling it lewdly and touching his chest in sexual way. The guy blushed, dropped his jaw in shock and turned to stare elsewhere. Mickey sniggered and left his box, glaring at anything in red, green and white.

In the last five minutes, Martin Rogers scored and then it was down to Mickey and Greg to ward off the attack that came from Italy to try and retake, level out a draw or beat the US. Louie got slammed, and as he went to the rescue in sync with Fulham, Mickey got taken out with a slam into his shoulder and leg in the way of his, twisting quick enough to land on his back and not his front. The result was a cacophony of roars from the crowd, swearing and threats from his team and rapid Italian being shot back and forth. He groaned and coughed, feeling like he'd been body slammed by that asshole Johnston again. Again he was only winded, but it was bad enough that he stayed down until the whistle blew a few seconds later. They had won, but barely.

“Milkovich, do you need the stretcher?” a referee skated up to Mickey where he lay on his back trying to breathe better, admiring the ceiling pattern and the lights.

“Nah, just winded. A hand up though?” Mickey asked slowly, feeling weary and too old for this shit. The ref chuckled and put out his hand and Mickey was back on his feet again with a kind _thanks_ , legs a bit jellified, but he was OK. The crowd was mental, screaming and crying in excitement and Mickey smiled, laughing at it all, waving a bit as he headed off the ice to the comfort of the bench and a pounding on his back from Thompson.

“You lethal son of a bitch! You took out their assassin with a headbutt for fuck sake, Mick,” his coach beamed.

“It was a fight, I didn't play dirty, you saw that,” Mickey quickly defended and Thompson grabbed him tight with both hands around his jaw, kissed him on the forehead and pushed him away.

“So proud of you kid, the lot of you, so fucking proud right now. My winners! Go, head back in, drink and take it easy for five before I gotta come rail on you all for the stupid ass mistakes that were made.”

Thompson was a hyena, a big, sharp toothed, going for the jugular whilst laughing at you one. He reamed them all about the mistakes some of them had made, his point being that none should have been made at all and if they hadn't, they'd have gotten in another three goals. Just because one man made a mistake didn't mean the rest of the team got off Scott free – they all had to listen and learn not to do it. In the showers, Mickey dipped his head under the spray and relaxed properly for the first time since being in his bathroom that morning, though, thinking about _that_ had him tensing up with alarm and willing his brain to shut off _please_. There were twenty men around him, naked, soapy and bruised to hell. His _friends_.

“Don't you do it,” he whispered down at his groin, glaring at his penis to stop it from turning traitor.

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Seth sang as he ducked under the shower next to his, “I know you took a beating, but I don't, for a second, believe the bruises on your throat and collar are from a fight on the ice. I see a fight of passion painting your snowy skin, brother. You fuck that guy you were talkin' about?”

Mickey cursed and busied himself with his shower gel to forcefully avoid blushing, rubbing his skin hard to get it red before his blush embarrassed him further. Satan had unleashed round two. “No.” He did _not_ think about how much Ian liked the scent and flavour of his skin because of the gel he was currently bubbling up all over his sides.

“He lies,” David hissed from the showers behind Mickey on the opposite wall.

“Am not fucking lying, Jesus,” Mickey grouched, scrubbing harder at his chest and stomach.

“What are you grillin' Mick about?” Louie piped up from a way down, washing the shampoo from his hair, flicking the suds everywhere with his rough hands.

“His hickeys,” Seth said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Mickey inhaled and barked, “Louie. Don't.” He knew as soon as he bit the words out that he'd made the wrong move for all of the team started up with jeers and wolf whistles through the noise of the water.

“Oh ho, Louie knows something! You got it on, didn't you?” David wondered, washing himself clean.

“What do you know Fael?”

“Is he a good lay?”

“Who are we talking about exactly? Do we got a name yet?”

“God, shut up guys, really, not fuckin' tellin' you leeches shit,” Mickey ducked under the spray to hide his smile, scrunching up his face to ward off the rebellious bubbles making a line for his eyes and mouth. They went silent for a while, taking to shooting Mickey salacious grins whenever he caught a set of eyes on him. It was when he was leaving the shower area to get his towel off a hook on the wall that Satan really came to town, wearing Louie's skin, of all people.

“They had a heavy make out sesh last night.”

“Louie! You fuckin' dick faced motherfucking traitor!” Mickey yelled over the cat calls and _ooohing_ and _oh my goding_ , leaning around the wall to glare as evilly as he could into the steam and wet bodies, trying to pin Louie with it though it was hard to see him.

“Sorry bro.”

“Not really though, right?” Mickey sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Nah.”

“Bitch.”

“You know he can't fucking help himself sometimes Mickey,” Milo laughed, “He loves you, likes to share your happy news with us lot because, yeah, we love you too. So you made out, who cares, right? We just like that you've got somethin' to smile about, right guys? S'about fuckin' time we had some decent news!”

“Yeah,” they chorused, smiling and laughing at Mickey's embarrassed shuffling and the nervous habit he had of rubbing his cheek.

“He _is_ making you smile, right? You're happy?” Bart asked from somewhere in the swirling steam and Mickey fucking hated himself right then because he smiled so dopey, so utterly soft and besotted, that they all cooed at him until he scowled out a _fuck you_ and stormed off to get dressed. Yeah, they cared, and they didn't care about Ian being a guy, but it was annoying and mortifying to be poked at over it and they knew it got Mickey all bothered. But at the same time, he felt a little giddy knowing they wanted to hear about his love life, or whatever it was, and clearly found it worthy of cajoling him into the floor. True friends.

 

 

“You're not mad are you?” Louie asked once they had settled on the train back, their carriage having been made private for the journey back just on the off chance that someone got to boisterous. The team had left Mickey alone after their taunting, but had kept up the sneaky little bumps with their shoulders or the smiles.

“No, I'm not mad,” Mickey smiled, assuring Louie that he was telling the truth.

“You gonna ask him to come to the party?” Louie asked before taking a sip of his chai tea, knocking knees with Mickey under the table.

“He's uh, busy with his own sport,” Mickey made sure to stay vague with ears everywhere, and glanced down at his phone and pressed it to light up the time, “Should be real into it now too.”

Louie raised his eyebrows and almost spat out his drink, “The fuck didn't you say something? We could have gone and watched! Jesus bro, lost opportunity to witness greatness from across the globe! Real competitive skating, not the rehearsal fun we saw. Man, you've bummed me right out now.”

“Oh, curl in that bottom lip before it gets so big I can use it to step up and slap you, Jesus. Can't just bail after a match, you know that,” Mickey accepted the tea as the hostess passed it to him with a smile, ignoring Louie's ridiculous pout.

“Yeah, I know, but still. Hope he gets through.”

Mickey nodded, “You doubt his skill, huh?”

“Didn't say that,” Louie licked his lip and tapped the table with his fingers, trying to make a galloping sound and failing so badly. “He's up against some real professional shit man, so I hope he nails that jump he's been working on. If he does that, his score will rocket him right up there.”

“What jump?” Mickey asked, trying to remember if Ian had mentioned anything to him about a complicated set he wanted to do. His mind came up blank as Louie looked around quickly, taking note of who had earphones and who didn't.

Louie kept his voice low, “His routines are varied, right, so he tries to do stuff out of left field to throw off his competition. Nothing in the rehearsal's open for viewing, secret stuff. Brown was telling me last night that Torch can back-flip and do all kinds of crazy moves that would have a lesser being on his knees, dizzy and puking. Brown is talented, he can river-dance for fuck sake, but Torch, he's got these back-flips in his belt, and has been working on nailing a quad-triple-triple like Evgeni Plushenko.”

Mickey's eyes blew open and his eyebrows rose so high on his head that the skin on the bridge of his nose tightened, “Fuck.” He remembered seeing that set as a kid, 2002 if he thought on it. _Jesus_ Ian had balls of steel and legs made from springs.

“Yeah. It's like, _the_ most difficult set to do man, not many can even land a damn quad but Torch has the legs and power to get up nice and high for it, you seen so yourself bro. If he lands it, he's golden, I mean, he's done some crazy stunts already to get himself noticed but that will get him legendary status. But, _if_ he doesn't, he's gonna end up real hurt Mick. Real fucking hurt.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey hissed it, worry rolling through him in place of the admiration he'd just been feeling. He loved that Louie was more into the skating side of it than he was because all he really saw was the guys if he was honest. It took real good routines to have him pay much attention to the skating, but Louie's eyes took in everything, learnt as much as he could and implemented it well in his own moves in the rink. Louie was their best scorer, thanks to figure skaters.

Louie eyed him closely, chewing his lip. “He's good though so he'll nail it. He'll be fine,” Louie assured as he turned to look out of the window and Mickey could see he didn't believe himself entirely, not about Ian's safety anyway.

“Yeah. Yeah, he will,” Mickey agreed, terrified to believe otherwise. He had seen what a stumble could do to Ian's body and he really didn't want to see what a real nasty accident could do. He knew what could happen with a fall, a high drop onto ice, or a slip of the foot. Those blades were _sharp_. He quickly fired off a text.

_**To TT:** Good luck with your comp. We won btw. Having a party to celebrate in the conference rooms in the hotel, you should pop in later when you get back. I heard about your secret jump. Be fucking careful. I don't like seeing bruises on you unless I put them there. See you later? MM_

He hoped the underlying _please don't get hurt, don't die, don't break your neck, don't cut yourself, don't break your leg because your wanker brother jinxed you, I care about you, I'm worried, I don't want to see you hurt, I really fucking like you_ was apparent to Ian. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but all Mickey could do until he got a reply was fret and worry about the redhead who had burrowed into Mickey like he should have been there all along. He still had no answer by the time they got back to their respective rooms to unload and change, and knowing the competition phase was over now – he'd switched on the TV to watch the coverage and had caught it just as the rank list had faded off to show an ice rink getting cleared of teddy's and roses so he hadn't seen where Ian ranked – all Mickey could do was fucking panic and worry his thumb, lip and fingers to the point of soreness while staring a hole into the wall where he stood at the foot of his bed. He had a party to attend, but like fuck did he want to go without knowing anything about the one guy he genuinely wanted in his life outside of his team and friends. This was a new kind of hell entirely. Round three and Mickey wasn't sure if Satan was going to land him with a knockout or victory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....uh. angst? I'm sorry, it won't be bad, honestly. he's just worried :)
> 
> also, Evengi Plushenko (yep, like Yevgeny, cos he's a Russian skater) really did do that set. It looked amazing. OH my god. I see Ian like him a little bit. OH look, an Evgeni... hah, that's the only one who's gonna appear in this. 
> 
> ......... so. I'm on tumblr under the same tag name. come find me :D


	7. Back Up, Back Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey parties like a sour grape and his worst nightmare comes true when a familiar face turns up.
> 
> rating upped (for now, might not need E after all, but im being safe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... warning: use of the word fuck, cunt and other swears. Smut for like, ages. Talk of domesticated violence. Fear, anxiety trigger. 
> 
> I am sorry. It happened. I'm just.... sorry. SMUT. i cannot thank you guys enough for the love, ugh, it's 2am and im dead lol so, mistakes are totally mine :)

 

Mickey stood by the table with the alcohol on it, drinking some fruit punch mix that Louie had concocted by assembling some vodka and five or six fruit juices from around the room. It was bright orange and tasted like some kind of adult tutti-fruiti but it was getting Mickey to loosen up so he didn't care one fucking bit.  
  
The party was in full swing, not some kiddies razzmatazz either; it was their winners celebration that had grown in size with the US competitors from other divisions who had gotten through to the next round in their respective sports events popping in, and those who hadn't and those who had yet to compete. It was an American free-for-all as far as Mickey could tell, he was almost certain the entire US collective was there, well, almost all of them, over a hundred at least, with the added bonus of other countries coming and going as they pleased in the name of goodwill and alliance. It was a good thing their hotels were so huge and that these conference rooms and halls were all connected along the back wing, buried away, but he was sure they'd end up spilling out into their own hotels at some point, drunk or sober, he didn't care. They each had an ass for a coach to chew on if they got too stupid and the only thing he really had any interest in was if he'd be near by to see the nagging.

Thompson, for the first time in a long while, had given them all the go ahead to get as wasted as they wanted, so long as they were respectful and smart about it, as they had training in the gym tomorrow evening – _you get too hungover, it's your own fucking funeral_ – and the next match in five days, _if_ they went first in the quarter-finals. The round-robin knock-out still had six of the eight games to go through before the quarter-finals came around. Sixteen teams - of which they had landed lucky with the second match on the first day - eight matches over four days with the first of the quarter-finals, after the break-day, on the seventh official day of the Games. Sixteen fucking days of snow, fourteen on the clock. Two down, twelve to go. So much going on, over three hundred events in something like, thirty-five recognised sports, whatever they were, and all Mickey could think about was one competitor who he hadn't heard from or seen hide or hair of since last night. He was brewing a headache the size of Kansas and he scowled further, taking a scathing sip from his plastic cup. His worry over Ian was driving him into angry territory. He was done with fretting, done with feeling lost, done with constantly checking his phone. Now, he was pissed; pissed at Ian for not answering his text, pissed at himself for worrying, pissed at Louie for failing to hide his pitying glances, pissed at his coach for this party because he could have gone back on the train, _goddamn it_. But he couldn't, wouldn't stop his panic, not until he saw Ian's pale face coming towards him, sans bruising, with a smile bending those pretty lips of his. Then, he'd slap Gallagher real hard for making him worry like this because Mickey didn't like it. Yes, he liked Ian, and he was a real sweet guy so, naturally Mickey would worry about him, anyone with eyes would, but for fuck sake, this was ridiculous, skating risk knowledge aside – he had it bad.

“Why, oh fucking _why_ , do you look like someone pissed in your hair?” Bart asked loudly near Mickey ear as he slid up next to him. The music was loud but nowhere near as loud as it was going to get, it was still early, and the tempo was some annoying _thump th-thump_ bone aching, nerve irritating beat that was starting to really annoy Mickey.

“This music is fucking awful,” Mickey shouted and Bart looked like he was laughing but Mickey honestly couldn't hear him. His captain gave him an amused nod and went about making a drink from all of the cartons on the table behind Mickey.

“Seriously though Mick, you look like a bear with a bees nest up his ass. Lighten up man, we won a game for god sake, enjoy the night, our rare chance over this fortnight to actually get smashed without worrying about an early start,” Bart said and Mickey pinched up his face and put his drink down, far to irritated to tolerate someone pushing him when he clearly wasn't in the mood. “Who knows if we'll get another party night, right?”

“Going for a smoke,” he made a gesture with his hand so Bart understood what he had said and barged through the bodies towards a set of doors that opened to the back of the hotel and the gardens beyond. Mickey sighed as he pushed the heavy door open and almost wept with how quiet it went as it shut behind him, only mildly offended by the freezing temperature; he had a beer jacket on, hypothermia could come and molest him in his tight black jumper, he wouldn't feel it. His jeans let him know they weren't in on the alcoholic shield though, acclimatising to the chill immediately and making Mickey flinch with every step he took into the dark to hide himself while he smoked and shivered like a wet dog. He grumbled and struggled to get his smokes out of his back pocket, growling when he shook too much to light it to start with; _fuck_ the snow. _Fuck_ his lighter.

“So not in the fucking mood right now, I swear to God – _thank you_ ,” he bitched as his cigarette took and he pulled from it with a sigh, thoroughly enjoying the harsh burn of smoke down his throat. He shakily enjoyed his peace and quiet for about three drags on his cigarette before the door flew open and someone came outside into his serenity. He was glad he was wearing black on top and dark blue on the bottom, he was camouflaged-

“Mickey?” apparently not. He'd monetarily forgotten that everything stood out again snow, even in the fucking dark. “Asshole, I see you.”

“Mandy?” he peered at the silhouette and when it dropped a hip and bent forward like it was sneering at him, he smiled. Definitely Mandy. “C'mere, bitch.”

“Why should I come to you?” she bit even as she wandered over, squealing the moment he opened his arms and squeezed her tight. “Missed you.”

“Missed you,” he laughed, letting go and handing over the last of his smoke to her when she put her fingers up for it. “Where you been then?”

“Sleeping. Plane was a nightmare and didn't get to the hotel until like, 7 this morning. The bus was slow and then the shuttle from the train station down to where I am was also fucking slow running so, I fell into bed around 7, I think. Sorry Mick, I missed your win,” she said with a sorry, sad looking smile and Mickey gave her a nudge.

“You've seen plenty of others. You'll see the next match anyways. The further we go, the better they are to be honest so don't feel like shit. I don't mind so you shouldn't, all right?”

Mandy smiled slowly and punched him lightly around his ribs, “Dick.”

“Hey,” Mickey scowled, “Dick isn't an insult to me, it's a goal,” he stuck his tongue out and bit it cheekily when she tried to swipe him again.

“Christ. So, why are you out here freezin' yours off?”

Mickey twitched his nose and looked towards the doors, “The music was pissing me off and I'm in a shitty mood. I _was_ brooding happily until you came and destroyed my peace. Asshole.”

“Fuck, sorry I bring joy and happiness wherever I go. Jesus, such a drama queen – Ow!” she hissed and punched him for pinching her arm. “No, tell me the truth though? You won a match, in the Olympics, and after a normal game you're fucking elated so I know you're lying about something. Music doesn't piss you off like this.”

Mickey hated her so much sometimes, like Louie, she could see right through him, so he sucked it up and shrugged, “No reason.”

“Motherfuck-” she growled and jumped up, getting him in a headlock and rubbing her knuckles against his scalp until he started wailing and trying to hit her but she had a grip around his throat, cackling at his clawing and gurgling. Milkovich strength hadn't dodged Mandy in the slightest.

“OK! Fucking get off! OK, all right, I'm worried about someone and it's been hours since I saw them and you know how I fuckin' get. I've pissed myself off, can't enjoy shit because I'm freaking out – Fucking _let go_!” he choked, tugging on Mandy's forearm before she pressed too hard and knocked him out. Fisting his jumper, Mandy let go and ragged him about a bit for the fun of seeing Mickey flail and try not to end up on his ass because of his tipsy state. He scowled at her and tugged his top back into place roughly while she smirked at him.

“Who is he?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey snapped, cracking his neck and rubbing his Adam's Apple while glaring at her.

“You want a horse bite?”

Mickey eyed his sister for a second, her stare cold and challenging, “You don't say a word of this to anyone, right? Louie knows, but he fucking started it off, and he ain't blabbed his name _yet_.”

“Jesus, I know, fuck. It's me you're talkin' to,” Mandy folded her arms under her chest and gave him _the are you serious right_ now stare he knew all too well.

“A'ight. Ian Gallagher,” Mickey said, straightened his back and watched Mandy's face morph from intrigue to confusion and then slowly melt into outright shock, excited shock at that, her eyes big and _glowing_ in the low light.

“No _fucking_ way. _No_ fucking way!” she burst, grinning and laughing as she turned on the spot, “Mick – _no fucking way_!” she looked like Louie had that morning and it made Mickey pinch his nose and regret opening his mouth. Children, honestly.

“Yes, yes fucking way-”

“Well where is he? I must meet him! You know how much I love him as it is, but Jesus, he's your fucking boyfriend now, this changes everything! Ha ha!” she beamed and Mickey groaned.

“No, neither fucking nor boyfriend. Just, I don't really know, sort of seeing how it goes I guess?” he sighed and Mandy stopped her swooning abruptly.

“Kissed him?”

“Made out. _Heavily_ ,” he stressed the word by putting his hand up sharply and Mandy crowed. He felt his mouth tugging into a smile even though he really wanted to feel annoyed still.

“Oh my god, precious! So, where is he?”

Mickey scratched his neck and flicked his hand at the door, “Not here. I told you I'm fucking freaking out about him. He had an event today and Louie mentioned something about a jump set he was going to do and well, it's a difficult fucker and if he didn't land it...” he raised an eyebrow and looked at the floor as he stomach rolled.

“Ah. I get that. OK, so have you tried to call him or anything like that?” Mandy asked quietly, taking in how the notion affected Mickey. She touched his arm softly and Mickey took a deep breath, nodding. “I guess you've heard nothing then?”

“Nah. So, yeah, I got a bit worried and it's been brewing and I got all pissed off at myself 'cause I met him four days ago Mandy, four fucking days. I'm worrying like I'm in love with the guy, waiting to marry him or some shit, _Jesus_. Pathetic right?” Mickey jumped when she slapped his arm hard and pointed in his face.

“You fucking dare lower yourself down like that in my presence again and I'll strip the skin off your dick and stitch it over your mouth like a graft, got it?” she threatened hotly and Mickey frowned, nodding quickly before that finger jabbed him in the neck. Her face relaxed and she nudged him, “Good. So, four days, four years? Time's kinda nothing really if you like someone Mick. Some people grow on us slowly, some ambush us out of the blue, some wander in and out like ants after sugar. It's just the way it is. So you like him a bit more than you anticipated, oh well, it seems to be OK? So, if I were you, I'd just be careful and take it for what it is. Blatant attraction. He must be something great to have this kind of effect on you and I'd take that as a good thing myself. Ambushed you good, hey?”

Mandy looked off up the mountains and smiled as Mickey stared at her face, knowing she'd gotten in his head, “A'ight. Kind of, I ambushed him if Louie's word is gospel. I caught Ian's eye apparently, before I saw the wood through the trees anyway. Hell I just thought he was some random team member, but when Louie explained who he was, I nearly died Mandy. Openly gay Gallagher, flirting off the bat, with _me_. That kind of shit doesn't happen to me. Nice guys don't like me-”

“Well it's about fucking time!” she punched him on the arm hard, scowling with warning.

Mickey let his face contort with confusion and pain as he rubbed his arm, “Jesus, bitch.”

“Look, if he's nice and shit, go with the flow because why the fuck not? He doesn't strike me as an asshole and I don't think he's stupid enough to fuck you off if Louie knows him,” her knowing smile had Mickey nodding. “If he does, Louie's gonna blab and you got twenty plus guys in there who'd hunt him down. Regardless,” she waved off that line of thought when Mickey started frowning because fuck, he was thinking about _that_ , them falling out... “Mickey, he's hella hot, _oh my god_!”

“Shut the fuck up Mandy, God!” she giggled when he snorted and shoved her a little, making her wobble away a few steps.

“I'm done with this heart to heart shit, it's killin' my vibe but! I'm happy for you,” she kissed Mickey's cheek and he pushed her off with a groan. They didn't do this mushy bullshit often, but getting a chance at growing up and _living_ had taught them both to express themselves better, talk and show they cared, not matter what it was. “Can we go inside now? S'fucking _freezing_ and I need a drink in my hand and fella on my arm.”

Mickey tugged her hand and headed for the door with a scoff, “I haven't told Louie you're here yet so, seek him out 'cause he's going to _freak_ the fuck out, flip a table or bench press Milo or somethin'!” Mickey started laughing at he hauled the door open and instantly got assaulted by loud music and heat, the smell of mixed body sprays and alcohol. He looked around for Louie's bulk and blond head in and around the dancing bodies and grinned when he spotted him pumping his fist to the music, intermittently yelling at Milo and Seth and whooping to himself. Mickey held Mandy's hand tight and weaved through the party goers until he stood directly behind Louie, who somehow knew Mickey was there; his sixth sense kicked in and he handed his drink to Seth, turning to hug Mickey in his drunken, lovingly grabby way, squeezing Mickey's ass with both hands and hefting him up off the floor with a shout.

“Mickey! My baby has returned to me!” Louie cheered, planting a wet kiss on Mickey's laughing mouth, “You taste gross.”

“Don't fuckin' kiss me then! Put me down, someone I wanna show you,” Mickey yelled over the music and Louie laughed, kissing his neck before dropping him on his feet without warning. Louie clearly expected to see Ian if his flirty grin said much, eyeing the taller heads bobbing around with a frown until Mickey shoved him playfully, phone in his hand and ready to record before pretending to be bored and engrossed in his phone to throw Louie deep into drunken confusion. He dawdled until Louie looked like he was going to throw a fit of frustration, then he side-stepped to reveal Mandy haunched over from hiding behind Mickey, grinning. Louie blinked and then _screamed_.

“Oh my god,” Mickey laughed, hand to his mouth as he recorded Louie's screeching fit, scooping Mandy right up off the floor to spin her and squeeze her in complete joy until she started to smack at him to put her down.

“Mandy! Mandy!” Louie was shouting, completely over the top in his actions and excitement die to being so hammered on his punch.

“Louie!” Mandy mimicked back, jumping around. Mickey shut off the recorder once Louie had calmed down to having one arm around her shoulders, introducing her to all of the guys even though they all knew who Mandy was. Mickey was chuckling as he weaved back to the alcohol table, shaking his head fondly while eyeing Jake get slapped across the back by his sister, shocking the shit out of the broad player.

“Hey Mickey.”

Mickey's heart stopped and his stomach jumped as he froze stiff, crushing the empty cup in his hand. Swallowing, he put the plastic down and turned slowly, so slowly he wasn't sure if he was actually turning or just relying on the earth's rotation to move him, until he was facing a familiar warm smile and a set of brilliant eyes. Well, fuck, now he was both stunned stupid and boiling with anger. Emotions really were overrated and they just kept festering. By the time he found his voice, it was dangerously low and hard and he had a time of it to keep it from exploding out of his mouth and drawing all eyes to them.

He grit his teeth, “What-”

“I'm not _that_ fuckin' drunk am I?” Louie shouted and Mickey swallowed again, this time it was a nervous response to Louie's questioning tone. His best friend was angry and Mickey couldn't blame him really.

“Thought I'd say hello while I could, you know? Congratulate you on today? I was in the stands you see.”

“What _the fuck_ are you doing here?” Mickey growled through his teeth, fists tight at his side, rolling and unrolling his fingers while he tried not to crack his teeth with his grinding. He was aware of eyes on him, of Louie yelling something, of the fact that his face was screwing up nastily but when faced with this fucking prick? How could he not react like that. Anything goes in this guy's book; cheating, lying, mind games, pushing boundaries, drunken beatings. Mickey's mind tried to flash up the past but he shut it down until all he could think of was his own anger, his own thirst to see this asshole _bleed_ for coming here and getting up in Mickey's grill when he had _no right_.

“Wouldn't miss a game, would I?” Luke smiled sweetly, but Mickey knew that smile meant nothing but spite. The gall of this asshole, honestly.

“Your ass got the sack. You don't play any more,” Mickey bit out, feeling his teeth creaking under the pressure of clamping them so tight together as he tried so hard to keep his cool. God he wanted to take this six-foot cunt to the ground and knock his teeth out.

“I don't, but my team is still my team, so I came to support them tomorrow and, _obviously_ , for when they win,” Luke brushed at his shoulder and faked nonchalance while Mickey seethed red hot like he'd been dumped in lava. He felt so angry he began to shake, so utterly terrified to his bone fibre that he wanted to cry and curl into a ball like he had done near the end of their relationship, if you could call it one. Mickey hated this man blind. His anger was rising the longer Luke picked lint from his blazer, winking at Mickey with a queer grin until Mickey was boiling hot and livid.

“I am _not_ seeing that motherfucker, right? I fuckin' _am!_ ” Louie's yelling got the music turned down and had gained an incredulous tone to it that he shouldn't have, as wasted as he was, he was quite preceptive and sobering up real quick. Mickey happily noted that as he took a step back away from Luke's slight step forward – Oh, Louie sounded so very, _very_ sober and _furious_.

“Who you on abo-” Seth.

“Look who fuckin' strolled up to Mickey!” Milo sounded as angry as Louie; Mickey forgot that half, if not two thirds, of his team had no idea that Mickey dated this loser, however brief the stint was, but the ones who did were ready to tear his throat out and use his windpipe as a flute. God, they hated him more than Mickey did, he was sure of it. He heard Louie explaining who Luke was – _it's Punchy McMindfucker, the cunt who beat Mickey unconscious, it was in the papers –_ to each of the guys who seemed to be asking and out of the corner of his eye, Mickey caught sight of his entire team gathering and looking his way, their body language telling Mickey someone was going to get his ass kicked. Mickey breathed harshly out of his nose, barely moving, not blinking, not daring to test the viper he had in front of him.

“What's going on?” More shouts and angry calls rose up above the music and Mickey could only beg the heavens that his friends got to him before he swung because, strength gained since he'd last seen this fuck or not, Luke would have him by the throat in a flash because why wouldn't he? It was his favourite move on Mickey, abusing his slightly shorter frame as he always had done, as he always threatened to whenever he could. He was lightning fast and his grip had never been careful when he used it; it was always tight and hard and with the purpose to choke Mickey out fast because if Mickey got a hit in, Mickey wouldn't stop and Luke hated to lose, in game or a fight or finishing a cigarette first. Space invading, spoilt son of a bitch, if he would just step off, Mickey could hit him hard against the jaw maybe? Ear perhaps? Balls definitely.

Luke smiled wide and coy and dipped close to Mickey as he backed up against the table, shying away from that nasty mouth as it ghosted close to his ear, “They always did froth at the mouth. Poor boys, they will be so upset once you all get booted in the next round, right?,” Luke got as close as he could without physically touching Mickey and raised his hand like he wanted to stroke Mickey's face, touch his cheek, strangle him. Mickey tried not to flinch, but he did, his breathing speeding up and his eyes itching from dryness as Luke's evil breath tickled his ear in a nasty whisper, “Do you let them fuck you to keep them smiling? I _know_ how much you like to please and I think-”

“ _I_ think you're making him uncomfortable so, mind backing the fuck up? Maybe try it on with someone your own size, hmm?” that voice, so cold and yet sickeningly _sweet_ , made Mickey's knees promise him the floor if he moved.

“ _Jesus_ Christ,” Mickey breathed as Luke frowned and pulled away, eyeing Ian with a look of approval, sizing him up, checking him out. Ian merely smiled back, blinking innocently at Luke.

“You're that skater-”

“I'm here to see Mickey and _you_ , Sir, are _right_ in my way so, if you wouldn't mind moving your encroaching ass to the right a bit?” Ian raised his eyebrows and shooed him away, looking down his nose the entire time. Luke blinked and chuckled darkly, staring Ian down as he moved, now overly aware of an entire hockey team gathered around him in a threatening semi circle, edging close to Mickey and even closer to Luke with disgruntled stares and vicious grins. Luke looked like he wanted to spit something nasty, but his unease caught his tongue as he watched Ian settle himself in a strong stance right in front of Mickey, tensing up his body to show he wasn't fucking around. Mickey didn't know if Ian could take his ex down, but he sure as hell looked like he would give it a good go as he had an inch or three on him and the strength that Luke once had from hockey was gone from not playing for a year. If Ian wanted to take Luke on, then Mickey wasn't going to protest, but he'd rather it wasn't in his defence, he didn't want Ian getting hurt over his past.

Luke's abrasive arrogance won out and he sucked his teeth, eyeing Ian from head to toe with a sneer, “The fuck are you, huh? Steppin' up in our business, on my territory like some-”

“Hold on, hey, keep it shut a second so I can work this out,” Ian put his hand up to stop Luke's spitting and simultaneously causing Mickey's team to freeze before they exploded at Luke, watching Ian sass him like a professional. Calmly, and a little amused, Ian turned to Mickey and gestured at Luke, “This your boyfriend?” he asked kindly and Mickey sniffed, rubbing his cheek and tonguing his lip.

“Like fuck he is.”

“So, that would mean that I'm steppin' up on nobody's business, as Mickey is happy for me to be stood here and he is who I'm concerned about, not you and your death glare,” Ian chuckled dryly and pinned Luke with a stare that had him shrinking a little. “ _And_ , as he isn't your boyfriend, there's no territory to be trampling on either, not that there should be any anyway because even when you're fucking _married_ , you don't _own_ your partner, dickhead. So, as I said, I'm here to see Mickey, that's me. You? Well, from what I can gather, you're shit on his shoe, right?”

Mickey felt his mouth curling into a snarky smile and Luke huffed as the team began hissing _ooohhh shots fired_ while Ian calmly stepped back and leant against the table, pressing himself right up against Mickey, daring Luke to do or say something with a lick of his mouth and a shit-eater grin as he folded his arms under his chest and locked his ankles. Mickey _really_ liked this guy.

“Sup, fuckface? Oh shit, yeah, forgot that I don't give a flying fuck except for when you're pushin' on my brother when you really got no business doing so, a'ight? Look, it was good seein' you but uh, time to leave, yeah?” Louie's nose was flaring and he was sharp-eyed and almost twitching physically to get his hands on Luke.

“Do as the kid says or I'll bounce you myself, asshole,” Their coach wandered over, red-faced and fuming. If anyone truly put the fear of hell in Luke, it was Thompson. He'd trained him before, he'd punched him before too, tossed him like a salad enough times to make Luke quiver. “Unless you need a word with me, you stay the fuck away from Mickey, from my boys, in fact, pretty much anyone who wears the stars and stripes at this event otherwise, sunshine, you'll find my foot so far up your ass you'll be chewing on my goddamn toes for a week, understand?”

Luke blanched and left, muttering a _yes Sir_ as he left through Milo, Seth, Shaun and Louie all cracking their knuckles and curling their lips in disgust.

“You Ok?” Ian asked softly, his breath warm and a welcomed sensation again Mickey's ear and neck. “Wanna smoke?”

“Fucking yes,” Mickey breathed around a smile, moving towards the doors with Ian on his tail as the spat seemingly dissolved into the floor; the music flared to life again, drinks were passed, cheering went up and Louie had Mandy on his shoulders wailing out words that weren't the lyrics, but sounded like they were. The quiet of the snow was a dream for Mickey as he stepped out and dug around for a cigarette, breathing deeply when the door shut and locked all of the merry-making inside.

“You want to talk about it?” Ian asked carefully, accepting one stick from the packet. Mickey thought for a second and decided to just say it because it wasn't like it hadn't been talked about enough already and he was over the fear and into the hatred zone. He was done with hiding himself, had been for a long time, and he wasn't about to go closing up doors and walls just because Luke had rocked his boat a little bit. It had taken him years to take those barriers down, brick by brick, and he felt like he could trust Ian with some of his baggage. He trusted Ian to not judge him at least because the guy was so used to being judged himself, he was probably the least judgemental person Mickey could have had the luck of meeting. So Mickey took a deep breath and shrugged.

“He's my ex. Dated for a few months, if that, and he's a class A, gold embellished dick,” Mickey muttered as he lit his cigarette, holding the lighter for Ian's. “He charmed his way into my pants and I liked him for a bit, I mean, he's a shit lay, but he was cool and fun. He cheated on me when we became exclusive or whatever, then came the lying, the mind games, the emotional toying he liked to fucking dish out on me. He had me doubting my own mind, man. The end was bad, I was alone with him, Louie was out of town for some kind of tour looking for sponsors when it all came down, I can't really remember. Luke comes home to find me cowering on the floor because I had finally snapped, decided I need to get the fuck out of there, away from him, but him coming through the door terrified me 'cause I knew the fuck had been drinking. So, we had a nasty fucking fight 'cause the asshole didn't want me leaving. I beat him up, he tried to turn me into fucking jello, I swear. I don't remember a large chunk, just him coming home, yelling, fists flying and then Louie in all his ferocity, barrelling through the apartment like the Hulk. Jesus, I have never been so pleased in my life about Louie's lack of privacy!” Mickey laughed, a dead one and Ian watched him as he drew long on his cigarette. “Luke had his hands around my neck at that point and I remember him being torn off and then nothing. I came-to on the floor in Louie's lap with Luke in cuffs on the sofa with fuck, so many cops in my apartment. Luke got dismissed from the Canadian team and, because the NHL don't like bad publicity, managed to get a lawyer good enough to get him off, but the story ran in a couple of papers because shit like that goes in the paper, right? So, yeah, Luke's a bastard with a death wish and, yeah... I'm done with him, with that part of my life, I'm over it but it doesn't mean he won't keep trying to scare me shitless for the fun of it. He always did get off on me cowering like a damn dog, sick fucker.”

Ian was gaping at him, he could see his mouth hanging open at least, but Mickey didn't react, he felt no reason to. It was what it was and he was past it, it was nothing but a shitty memory and he had many more good ones to overshadow it. “Jesus Christ, Mickey. Fuck sake.”

“Ay, it's nothing now. It's done, he didn't hit me any more than I hit him, he was shit in bed and a jealous cunt who cheated on me whenever he could even though I hadn't wanted to be exclusive. I hadn't wanted that with him, but somehow he managed to get me liking the fucking idea and then bang, cheats left, right and centre, to hurt me. He loved to upset me to then break me down and build me up so he was the good guy. He's fuckin' sick in the head Ian, stay clear of him, all right?” Mickey pushed, not raising his voice above anything more than a harsh mumbled as he concentrated on smoking his cigarette. “Don't want him hurtin' you, OK? He's nothing, not worth the time of day.”

“Sure, yeah, anything you want, Mick,” Ian agreed, smiling so Mickey could see it. They stayed quiet until they'd finished smoking, watching the moon appear and disappear behind clouds. Mickey was relaxed and enjoying the peace, turning to Ian as he spoke softly, “So, I qualified and you guys won, huh? Good day, considering.”

Mickey reacted quickly, turning to pin Ian with a pained look that he tried so hard not to let run over his face like rain, but there it was. “The fuck didn't you let me know you were OK, Ian? You got my text so why didn't you fuckin' answer?”

“Whoa,” Ian put his hands up and stepped forward, “I never got a text, Mick. Coach made us leave our phones this morning, distractions and all that. I know you won because everyone on the team is talking about it, about how you beat the shit out of a player, how Louie did some fancy ass move to net the puck, how Italy must have been spreading those rumours to scare you guys off like some childish hakka shit. I'd have answered you, if I had my phone, I promise.”

Mickey eyed him and bit his lip, “You're not lyin'?”

“The hell would I lie to you for? I wouldn't even if I had the choice, Mickey, I'm all about honesty, even if it fucking hurts to hear it or say it.”

Mickey felt his annoyance ebb away until all he felt was relief, looking over Ian's open expression of sincerity, “You OK though? Didn't get hurt or nothin' doing those flips and shit?”

“Hah, no. I'm not allowed to do flips during an event, it's frowned upon 'cause it's too close to gymnastics and _really_ fucking dangerous,” Ian widened his eyes to prove his point and Mickey narrowed his a little.

“You get through or whatever? Or was it the actual competition thing and you're now a lucky son of bitch with two fucking weeks to play around in the snow, eh?” Mickey turned to look up over the snow a bit, hating the cold prettiness of it.

Ian chuckled and scuffed his shoe, stuffing his hands in pockets, “Nah. Today was qualifying, so the judges sat in on it to get a better idea of what they'll be watching for during the events. Made me nervous as fuck though, but I kept my cool, didn't slip or hurt myself, in fact, I nailed my set nicely and I'm sitting pretty in third place for now,” Ian smiled shyly, ducking his face down as Mickey's opened up into a bright smile, stepping close quickly to tip Ian's chin up with his thumb.

“Hey,” Mickey whispered and once Ian looked up and smiled back, Mickey wrapped him in a tight hug and held on tight, breathing easier once Ian's arms locked around his back. “Well done. M'real happy for you.”

“Christ Mickey,” Ian breathed, squeezing a touch tighter and pressing his nose into Mickey's shoulder to inhale the smell of his clothes, his body wash, spray, cigarettes and warm skin. Mickey smiled and nuzzled his nose into Ian's neck, pressing his mouth to the skin of his neck in an imitation of a kiss but not going as far as doing it. “You hug like you're going to disappear. Kind of don't want to let go right now,” Ian mumbled into his shirt and Mickey chuckled, smiling against Ian's cooling neck.

“You're a dork,” Mickey said and Ian let out a deep sigh.

“Nah, just really comfortable. Oh, and I'm proud of you for winning, by the way. Real proud of you,” it was said so kindly that Mickey simply couldn't answer. He knew Ian meant the whole team, but the way he said it, so soft and honest, made Mickey believe that maybe Ian was proud of just him. Ian shifted and pulled his nose up off Mickey's shoulder so he could kiss his cheek, long and tender and in a way nobody had ever done before. Mickey let his eyes flutter shut, absorbing the sensation of soft, chilled lips on his cheek bone and a warm body pressed tight to his front, a strong arm around his waist and a hand clutching between his shoulder blades like it wanted to settle in his hair but didn't want to let go of his clothing, like he might actually disappear if it did. Mickey's own hand was already in Ian's hair, stroking and threading through the strands and holding his head, never stilling while the other held tight to Ian's hip to keep him from moving anywhere. He was standing on the balls of his feet, his jeans freezing the backs of his legs, but Ian was solid and warm and a comfort he was being allowed to enjoy, a comfort that was in turn taking some for himself, kissing Mickey's cheekbone again, then a little lower, then higher to his temple. Mickey felt light and airy and was loving the hug more than he thought he would; as much as he was hugging like he, himself, was going vanish in any given second, Ian was holding onto him like he needed Mickey to survive.

“Want me to let go?” Mickey asked quietly, his fingers dancing through Ian's hair, scratching lightly and tapping some odd beat out as they went. Ian stopped pressing his lips where he'd settled, right by Mickey's ear, and pulled back a tiny bit, loosening up his grip enough so that they could look one another in the eye.

“Not that I'm not fuckin' loving this hug but... Want to kiss you more,” was all Ian said before he held Mickey's head and guided them together, slotting his mouth with Mickey's like he was purposely alive just for doing that, fitting their lips together so perfectly that Mickey inhaled as sharp as Ian did, humming his delight in his throat.

The door flew open and the rush of loud music had Mickey and Ian breaking apart quickly. Mickey was panting and Ian looked like someone had booted him in the shins, panicking over it. Mickey stepped up next to him as a few drunkards wobbled out to light their own cigarettes, giddy and joking and not seeing either Mickey or Ian in the shade of the building in their dark clothes. Mickey eyed them and laced his fingers around Ian's, not quite holding his hand, but enough to let him know that Mickey wasn't bothered by having to spring apart like that, he wasn't stupid, not everyone was so accepting and it wasn't like had hadn't ridden the rodeo a few times to know that.

“C'mon,” Mickey grunted, running his fingers along Ian's palm before he moved away and strode to the door, hefting it open for Ian to catch and follow him inside.

“Mick!” Louie yelled, red faced and smiling like he was higher than the mountain they were on. “Oh, Ian, hey man. How'd the gig go today bro? You win?”

“Qualifying Louie,” Ian laughed, scrunching his face up as Louie caught his hand and tugged him into a hard hug, pounding his back and messing up his hair. Mickey could see Louie mumble something into his ear before he let go, winking and purposefully shoving Ian away to save face. Mickey was deeply suspicious.

“So, did you get through or fuckin' what?”

Ian rose an eyebrow and Mickey found himself smiling at the state of his hair, his cheeks flushed from the rush of warmth to his face, “Yeah, yeah, qualified third.”

Louie put his hands up and cheered, looking like he'd hit the jackpot. “That's what I'm fuckin' talkin' about! Mandy, come meet the fiery whipper snapper that is, a one mister Ian _Fucking_ Gallagher!” Louie roared to which he got a loud cheer and Mickey chuckled as Ian ducked his head and tried to stifle the massive grin covering his face.

Mandy waltzed over, pleasantly buzzed with a drink in her hand and hopped on the spot, extending her hand, “Pleasure. Massive fan of yours, you're pretty fuckin' awesome and not a bad sight to watch either. I wouldn't kick you out of my bed-”

“Mandy!” Mickey laughed as Ian chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, taking his hand back and putting it in his pocket.

“What?!” she barked nastily, shoving Mickey before giggling and hugging him tight. “He's gorgeous and shy and sweet and _oh my god_ you totally, adorable crushing _children_ are going to kill me. Take him dancing or take him upstairs 'cause the boy is tryin' _so_ hard not to touch you right now,” she rushed into his ear as he lifted her up and swirled her around, Mandy's hands a touch tight in his hair, “His hands are twitching! Oh my god, he's got a fuckin' beautiful smile and it's aimed right at your sorry carcass.”

“Fuck, ow!” Mickey hissed as her hands tightened with her obvious glee, “The fuck're you talkin' about, Mandy?”

“He wants you. Got it b-a-d. I can see it. Louie can fuckin' see it, look at his dorky smirk, Jesus,” Mandy said into his ear as she let go and Mickey put her down. She was right about Louie, but Ian? He didn't dare look right now, but he could feel him watching. Louie popped his eyebrows and wiggled them, hooking Mandy off to dance to some pounding beat without another word.

“Your sister is something else.”

Ian's amused voice in his ear made Mickey jolt and breathe out a laugh of surprise, “Yeah. She's somethin' all right.”

They got drinks and Ian was torn from Mickey's side for a half hour by Jason, leaving Mickey to watch closely as the two laughed and Jason introduced Ian to some other US team members. Mickey heaved a sigh and left his drink in favour of giving in to Louie's mime lasso, joining his best friend and the rest of his crew and his rowdy sister to jump and move to some heavy club music, enjoying himself and laughing at the dance battle Milo started with Shaun to Rude Boy. When the noise was deafening and the crowd around the players battle dense, Mickey felt his hand get captured and his body tugged through the cheering people around him until he popped out on the other side of the thick band of bodies, hitting Ian's solid chest.

“I don't want to seem like a dick or anything, but I really want to leave,” Ian said into his ear and Mickey gave a nod, hands skimming Ian's hips to steady his footing. Ian's tone wasn't regretful, it was questioning and brazen and Mickey heard the hidden _with you_.

“Oh yeah?” he smirked and bit his lip, licking it slowly as he looked up. He sucked it into his mouth and watched as Ian's face blanked out for a second. Boldly biting your lip was not a mistaken concept, not by anyone. Soon Ian was grinning, coy and dirty and Jesus fuck, Mickey was burning up just from that smile, the glint in Ian's eyes.

“Yeah. Your room is closest,” was his reply as he tugged Mickey out of the conference hall, letting go of his hand to stride beside him through more bodies in the corridors and stairwells until they reached the elevators, Ian barely holding himself in check. Mickey wondered if he just brushed up against him, would it break Ian? Would he snap and have Mickey pinned in a flash, devouring him like the look in his eye promised he would?

“Fifth floor, please?” Ian said to the smartly dressed man in the box as the doors opened. Security in the elevators? Mickey didn't think it was overly odd as many of the people downstairs were smashed and probably wouldn't make it to their doors without a helping hand, but he didn't like the man wrecking his chance at sucking Ian's throat and tongue in the confines of the mirrored box. He scowled just because he could, enjoyed the way Ian seemed to find him amusing, standing on the opposite end with his hands clasped in front of his crotch. His shirt really brought out his hair colour; royal blue dress shirt, open at the collar and tucked into black skinny jeans and brown construction boots. Mickey bit the inside of his cheek and kept glancing at him, his mouth watering every time he roved his sight over the tall, lithe frame of the skater. He felt excited, thrumming with it. He felt nervous, his pulse beating like the clappers, a thousands miles an hour.

“Gentlemen,” the guard said at the doors pinged open and Ian obviously gave no fucks, not a single one as he grinned devilishly and grabbed Mickey's hand, hauling him out into the hall and dodging left when Mickey tipped his head to send him the correct way to his door. Opening it caused him more grief than he thought necessary as Ian pressed up against his back and kissed his nape, his hands roaming Mickey's shoulders and back appreciatively, making Mickey shake enough to miss the card slot twice.

“ _Fuck_ , stop that or we won't get inside,” Mickey hissed, closing his eyes as Ian laughed and removed himself a step, crowing when Mickey unlocked his door and pushed in, Ian right on his heels. The door barely clicked shut before Ian had his hands on Mickey again, cupping his head to kiss him, his other hand on the small of Mickey's back, pulling him in close and hard against his body. Ian's tongue licked inside Mickey's mouth and he saw stars, groaning at the heat and slick slide of it against his own questioning licks. Not breaking for a second, Ian walked Mickey backwards until he could hold him against something; the wall came first, knocking the dainty floral picture sideways with Mickey's head, then the break in the wall caught them off guard and Mickey spun them so he had Ian's back pressed against the arch, hands working at tugging his shirt out of his jeans.

“Don't pop any buttons off,” Ian managed to say as he turned his head and caught Mickey's mouth again, his grip on Mickey's neck tight and hot and grounding while his mouth threatened to drain Mickey of his life.

“Take your fuckin' clothes off,” Mickey hissed, tearing himself away long enough to get his jumper up over his head, throwing it in the direction of the sofas. Ian was panting, flushed and swallowing like a suffocating fish. Mickey yanking at his own belt had Ian quickly unbuttoning his short half way before pulling it up and off, his chest bare underneath and the sight stopped Mickey's hands. “Oh, how the fuck? Are you photo-shopped or somethin'?” he gushed, reaching out to run his hand down from Ian's collarbone to his bellybutton with a groan. This guy was something else entirely.

“Hah, shut up. Take your vest off, c'mon, I wanna see you,” Ian bit his lip and Mickey wanted to weep. He did as he was told and felt himself flush red hot, his cheeks burning with how Ian looked at him; like he was nothing on earth. He had a nice body, of course he did, he was a hockey player who hit the gym on the regular and spent most of his time in a crouched position chasing down a players and pucks. It made for tight stomachs and strong arms. Much as it embarrassed him when Louie perv'ed on his legs and ass, he favoured those himself, knowing they were taut and powerful and he desperately wanted to get his jeans off and show Ian just how good they were, make him think about having them wrapped around his waist, his back, propped on his thighs, on his shoulders, wrapped around his head.

“C'mon, clothes of first,” Mickey hummed, unhooking his belt and dropping his zip, the noise setting Ian off again as he got to tearing off his remaining garments and his shoes like Mickey until they both stood in their boxer briefs, silently watching each other breathe in harsh lugs of air.

“Those are snug,” Ian noted, nodding at Mickey's boxers with a smile. Mickey popped his eyebrows and tongued his teeth, stroking down his hips and over the material that clung to his ass like a second, red skin. Ian growled and pushed forward, kissing Mickey passionately again, holding his hip and head as he pressed close enough that Mickey's bare skin greeted the hot, hard line of Ian's cock hiding in his grey underwear. Pressed this close together had Mickey standing on the balls of his feet between Ian's spread ones, Ian holding him so well that Mickey was not longer needing to stretch his neck or tug down to devour Ian's mouth; they were almost equally matched this tight together though Ian's head was slightly dipped down to Mickey's slight up. It was driving Mickey's heart up the walls of his ribs, sparking off every nerve ending he had. Mickey wasn't sure if they could get any closer and wished to fuck he had a floor length mirror right then, so he could see how well he fit against Ian's body.

Mickey was aware he was being forced backwards again and prepared to hit the bed but, when Ian turned and fell down onto his back, Mickey didn't complain. He climbed up Ian's legs and crawled over him as Ian backed up to the pillows and sat back, pulling Mickey into his lap to steal more consuming, needy kisses from him, folding his arm around Mickey's lower back. Ian seemed to favour doing that and Mickey wasn't about to complain about it, in fact, he rather liked feeling locked in and cradled like Ian wanted nothing more than to feel his body, his skin against him, holding him there as Mickey's hands roamed his chest and jaw, up into his hair and down his neck with light scratches while he sucked on his lips and licked and teased Ian's tongue.

“Want to make you feel good, Mickey, I do,” Ian whispered as Mickey licked and sucked his collarbone, “Like nothing else matters, nothing but the pleasure I'm causing.” _Nothing but me_.

“Just got one question,” Mickey murmured against Ian's throat, smiling as the redhead's breath caught when he nipped his pulse, “Catch or pitch?”

Ian moaned a little under Mickey's questing tongue and groping hands, palming his chest and stomach, “Pitch. Tell me you catch, please tell me you catch...”

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, unable to stop his breathing from speeding up as he sat back and stared down at Ian's flushed face, pink cheeks and nose, jaded eyes and puffy, kiss-shined open mouth. “Yeah, I catch real good.”

“Shit,” Ian lunged up and latched his mouth onto Mickey's throat, sucking as his hands unlocked and pressed between his shoulders, one sliding up to hold his head still as he pushed up more and rocked them over so he had Mickey flat on the bed under him. Mickey shamelessly opened his legs wide and grunted, trying to throw his head back when Ian's weight settled between them, cock burning against his own, but Ian's hand held him still as he ground his hips down and sucked hard on his skin. Jesus Christ but this was electrifying Mickey and he whimpered pitifully as his hips relaxed and fell right open, giving Ian the room to grind and roll his pelvis, press his stomach against Mickeys heated middle, soft and smooth.

“Oh God,” Mickey moaned, unreservedly and loudly at that, his hands roaming over the planes of muscle on Ian's back, feeling the bunching and moving bulk under his fingertips. He pulled his knees up and pressed the soles of his feet against Ian's thighs, loving the hard feel of them under the soft hairs, the silky skin. God but this guy was powerful and Mickey was enjoying every damn second of Ian's discovery of his body with his mouth, the press of his body and the movement of his hands once he freed Mickey's head, hickey satisfactory for now.

“You're beautiful,” Ian said forcefully, groaning as he thrust lazily against him and felt all over his sides, his ribs, scratching at Mickey's belly before sliding over his hip and under to grip the back of his thighs. “Fuck, your thighs are amazing, Jesus-”

“Don't need to say shit like that, you already got me,” Mickey breathed, flushing a little. He'd wanted the praise but God knew he couldn't actually take it well. Ian could see that and he looked a little bothered by it, his frown deep and his hips stopping while he held Mickey's gaze.

“Hey, I speak honestly, I told you that. I'm not just saying it because of what we're doing, Mick. Honestly, all of you is gorgeous, beautiful pale skin and hard lines, but the curve of your thighs and the swell of your ass – Christ. Seeing them before was a punch in the face but touching them?” Ian breathed, making sure Mickey was taking it all in, speaking softly but resolutely as he ran his hand over Mickey's thigh again, gripping one cheek of his ass, squeezing it, moaning, “ _Mickey_.” That was the most sinful, most blood burning way anyone could ever hope to say his name, ever. And Ian had done it first, had it patented, and Mickey begged whatever deity was grinning down at their marvellous plan unravelling that Ian kept doing it, that he got to keep fucking hearing that because he was sure, with that one singular moan of his name, Ian had ruined him for anyone else.

“Fuck,” Mickey bit out, feeling like he should say something back about how much he wanted to stare at Ian's body forevermore, how gorgeous he was to look at, how sweet his personality was, how utterly stunning he was to Mickey's eyes and how lethal that was to his heart and mind. But he couldn't speak, his needy grunts and broken gasps and moans were overpowering the ability to form words that weren't swears. So, wanting Ian to know he felt very much as passionately as he did, he pulled him down and pushed his crotch up, kissing Ian with feverish bites and licks and moans into his mouth, trying his damnedest to convey his thoughts with his mouth and roaming hands and pleased noises with every new area of Ian he touched, could reach. His favourite part was holding Ian by his backside, flush and tight against him as he rolled his hips, feeling his ass bunch and soften with every one under his hands, pinning Ian's pelvis in place as he arched up and sucked on his neck where it joined his shoulder, Ian groaning and breathing heavily against Mickey's shoulder as he fought to hold himself up on unsteady arms. His biceps were bulging and he tried to move up a little more, shift his knees but Mickey knew he wouldn't have such close contact if he did that, so he held him tighter by holding him down with his legs over his calves.

“Jesus, I can't Mickey- we keep on, I'll come and _die_. Not gonna be able to take you apart, fuck you deep and hard like I want to, _please_ , Mickey. I wanna make you forget everything, everyone but me and how good I can make you feel,” Ian begged quietly, his lip catching on Mickey's skin as his mouth fell open on a hard thrust on Mickey's part. “Let me up you little shit.”

Mickey chuckled and bit down on his skin playfully, relenting because yeah, he was going to shoot in his boxers. They were already damp and clinging and the promises falling out of Ian's desperate mouth had already planted in his head and god, he'd be a lying son of a bitch if he said he didn't want him to carry them out. Ian didn't move far, just took away his lower half as he crawled closer, kissing Mickey breathless for a minute as he settled on his knees.

“I hope to fucking God you have rubbers and slick in here?”

Mickey pursed his mouth and frowned around a scoff, “Seriously twinkle toes, I'll go fetch, you only needed to asked. I know the drill,” Mickey rolled out from under Ian's heat and presence to go to his suitcase and dig around in the secret pocket deep inside against the front panel. “No cover?”

“No lover.”

Mickey chuckled, pulling a out blue bottle, “No slick?”

“No dick.”

“That's fuckin' right,” Mickey laughed, throwing a box of assorted sized condoms at Ian as he stood up, spreading his legs and folding his arms as he watched Ian mooch through the box like a kid looking for a lost candy. “So, you gorgeous fucker, lose the boxers. I want to see what I'm up against, _properly_.”

“Give me a second, Jesus,” Ian giggled, _aha_ ing when he found the size he wanted and, upon seeing which once, Mickey went a little lax and gawked as Ian re-packed the lose rubbers, tossing the box as he stood up on the bed and snatched his underwear down in one fell swoop of long fingers and cotton. “Happy now?”

Mickey's mouth watered so fast he thought for a fleeting second that he was going to vomit from shock. He swallowed and tossed the lube on the bed, his mouth barely working, “Holy fuck. Happy doesn't cover it.”

“No, but this will,” Ian held up the foil square with a wink and Mickey couldn't even muster an eye roll at his lame cheesy line, merely gaping and staring like the struck-dumb clot he was. “Take yours off and come back so I can start wrecking you.”

Mickey needed no further encouragement to move his ass and pulled his boxers off, stepping away to climb towards Ian as he knelt with his arms open, hands ready to pull him in and touch his bare ass lovingly. The pawing and squeezing and kneading combined with Ian's tongue in his mouth had Mickey's voice-box open right up, his moans loud and uncontrollable as his skin lit up like the fourth of July. Ian had him so light-headed and distracted that he blinded went wherever those brilliant hands pushed and he soon found himself braced against the pillows with his legs bent up and Ian lay down on the bed, face in his groin as he kissed and sucked at the inside of his thighs like they were just for him to eat.

“Gonna start now, just lettin' you know,” Ian mumbled around the flesh of Mickey's right knee, reaching for the blue bottle as Mickey barely got in any air. His head snapped back and he pushed a grunt out in a pained gasp as his straining cock was enveloped by Ian's searing hot mouth, his shoulders pushing Mickey's thighs open so they cradled his head as he propped up on his elbows, slicking his fingers while he mouthed Mickey's dick. The wet squelch was warning enough for Mickey though he fought desperately to try and pay attention, but all he could do was _feel_ as the glide of a long finger up and down his crack hit him, down to his balls before it pressed into him teasingly a few times, circling and sliding in more lube before it slid inside of his body in one smooth, practised glide. Mickey moaned with his mouth open, hands tight in Ian's hair as he fingered him slowly, sucking him down in contrast to ever push and pull of his finger.

“Oh fuck. Jesus Ian, oh Jesus,” Mickey babbled breathlessly when Ian added the second digit, his ministrations never faltering or changing in speed or motion, but his tongue and mouth did. He kept sucking hard and tight around Mickey's cock, fast and then so damn slow it felt like a tickle, licking and laving at the head of his cock, humming at the burst of pre-cum that he was drawing out by barely brushing Mickey's prostate. Ian was trying to kill him, he had to be. The third finger burned and Mickey hissed a little and soon more lube was added, dribbling between his cheeks.

“Lift,” Ian's shoulders moved a bit, jostling Mickey's legs so he looked down and swore; Ian was reaching for the comforter on the edge of the bed, but his mouth was still pulled tight around Mickey even though he wasn't moving. Victorious, Ian pushed it under Mickey as he lifted up and caught his eye, holding it as he carried on finger Mickey open, licking and moaning and mouthing around his dick like he was fucking eating it.

“I'm good, swear, just-” Mickey cut off on a teeth clenching groan at Ian pegged his prostate, once, twice and then his fingers were gone and the skater was sitting up with a wide, puffy smile and reaching for the condom. Mickey took a few breaths and watched him roll it on, his mouth aching to have that long shaft in his mouth. Next time. There would be a fucking next time, hell be damned. “You mind if I turn around?” Normally Mickey wouldn't give two shits about how the other guy felt, but Ian was someone else, and he had taken his time to prep him and had done it carefully, had kissed him to pieces and sucked him back together so he thought it nice to ask.

“You put yourself in whatever position is comfortable for you and I'll make it work,” Ian assured him, kissing Mickey softly as he sat up and then turned onto his hands and knees, head dropping down. The bed shifted around his knees and Ian shuffled close, Mickey pulling his knees closer together, and bracketed his thighs with his own. The hand on his hip was heavy and steady and Ian tapped his fingers before Mickey felt the stretch of him pushing his dick past Mickey's rim.

“Mmmm oh my god,” Mickey felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't moan enough to express how fucking good he felt. Ian kept push-pulling until he was bottomed out and flush against his ass, stroking his skin soothingly, palming his back and kissing his shoulder.

“You are so goddamn tight Mickey. You feel so good, never known the feeling, swear to God. Ohm,” Ian kissed his neck and started to pump his hips carefully, like Mickey would shatter if he pushed too much too soon but Mickey wanted it, needed it.

“M'not made of glass firecrotch,” Mickey gasped, his shaking and broken moaning saying otherwise and Ian chuckled, sucking it in as Mickey pushed back against him a little.

“Glass or not, I don't wanna hurt you. Give me time and I'll fuck you hard and deep like I promised, Jesus,” Ian breathed and Mickey could hear the smile, surrendering to the slow push and pull and stretch of Ian inside him, loving the feel of his hands roaming everywhere they could reach, the kisses that Ian pressed into his skin like brands. “Spread your knees as far as you think you can bare to have them at while getting pounded,” Ian said after a few slow thrusts, shifting to let Mickey move without pulling out; Mickey spread his legs, thanking his gym instructor once again for teaching him to split, until his cock was hovering above the comforter and his spine arched tight with Ian's knees hugging his on the outside as he pushed his legs open too, gaining a good swing in his pelvis with the angle while he held Mickey in that position, his legs hard and unmovable. Mickey howled as Ian gripped his hip and shoulder, leaning over him to press his forehead against Mickey's nape as he fucked into him in long, hard thrusts, holding real deep every third or fourth one, nudging and pushing on his prostate.

“ _Ian_! Fuckin'-” Mickey scratched and clawed at his bedding, grunting and wheezing with the consuming pleasure and fire in his body. Ian was not showing mercy, his thrusts becoming harder the more Mickey moaned for him, the more brokenly he cried, until Ian had a steady, smooth rolling rhythm going that had him breathing into Mickey's neck, his mouth twisting up to reveal his teeth, catching skin every now and then. Mickey felt everything and was especially pleased when Ian pulled his chest off and slid his hand up his spine and into his hair, holding tight while his other hand snuck around and took him in hand, tugging slowly and then quickly, alternating like he had imagined he would. Mickey sucked in air sharply and punched it straight back out as ecstasy smashed into him, pleasure burning in his groin while he tried his hardest to hold onto something, moving with Ian's steady pace as the skater panted and moaned like he a dying. Every shift Mickey made, Ian copied, never letting him create distance, never letting him feel any less of what he was giving, never allowing Mickey to feel like he wasn't all Ian care about right then.

“So close, Mickey. You feel so good, so tight, so wet with all the lube. God, I would fuck you all night if I had a cockring,” Ian groaned, licking at Mickey's spine, mouthing the bumps of his neck. Mickey grunted and gasped and whimpered and throbbed as his balls drew up with a tight pump of Ian's fist and he curled his fingers in his bedding, stuffing his head down.

“Ia-n, m'coming, m'coming!” he tried to say it but it came out in a sob as he came with force enough to knock him funny, relying on Ian's arm around his waist to keep him up through his twitching and gulping moans.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, oh God, so tight, tighter, fucking amazing Mickey-” Ian broke off his rambling praises with a choked moan and defeated noise as Mickey convulsed around his cock and squeezed his orgasm from him without any kind of warning. Ian was coming, Mickey could feel him swelling and barely thrusting against him, his face pressed against his shoulder so much so that Mickey could picture the blissed-out and yet tense face he was making. Mickey had enough strength in his body to force Ian to roll with him on to their sides, still and sated with the fire receding back to a good, steady burn, no longer an inferno.

“That was just... it was...” Mickey panted, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Yeah, I know,” Ian agreed with a kiss to his shoulder, exhausted. He got up a second or so later and tugged the dirtied comforter out from under Mickey's body, kissing his mouth sweetly a couple of times before disappearing into the bathroom to drop it in the hamper and clean himself off. Mickey didn't see or hear him come back out as he drifted into a bone-heavy sleep with a smile on his face and the taste and feel of Ian everywhere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... Ian, you take good care of our Mickey ;) s'gonna feel that for a day or two, no? *sniggers* 
> 
> so they finally fucked! hooray me. i hope i did OK :) MWAH!


	8. Coffee and Fajitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian sleeps over, Louie is beside himself about that and Mickey gets some sad news. It doesn't bother him. It does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluffy boys! this is a filler chapter, sort of, so i can keep my flow going. Warning: sappy boys, a lot of Louie, mentions of Terry and the fucked up shit he brings, and you find out a little more about why Mickey is the way he is, and who is responsible for raising our moo into the sweet guy we all know is hiding under that hard shell. This tbh is utter shit and yeah, I'm sorry. Had to write something to keep the flow going... Mistakes are mine, of course, so i apologise, i tend to skip over them when i flash read and type.
> 
> Again: THANK YOU for all the love, you guys, honestly. Ugh. Have all my cookies.

 

Waking up cold was not something Mickey ever enjoyed, hated it in fact, so he swore to himself about the harshness of it all and wondered why the hell his thermostat hadn't kicked in yet. It kicked in around the time of his alarm and he was awake, so what the fuck?

“Swear to God,” he muttered, his throat tight with sleep and thick with the need to guzzle water like it was going out of fashion. He pushed up on his arms and rolled onto his backside, blinking around until he came to the conclusion that it wasn't anywhere near to his usual wake -up time as it was pitch in his room and his alarm silent. He shifted and groaned – his bladder had woken him up. That's what you get for lying on your front with a fit-to-pop bladder. He got out of his bed slowly, wondering why the hell he was so cold and swore when his foot caught his quilts on his skirt of the bed, understanding that he must have kicked them off, grouching his way to the bathroom. He groaned when the lights blinked on and blinded him for a second and he proceeded to relieve the pressure in his abdomen, eyeing the bite marks on his shoulder and neck with a sly grin. He carried on smiling at his reflection as he flushed the toilet and washed his hands, and as he pressed on a mark, he noticed he had his boxers on – had Ian put them on him? - and he suddenly realised that he was also alone in his room. Ian. Where the fuck was Ian? He hadn't skipped out without a fucking word, had he? Mickey felt sick and a little angry as he took his hand away from his throat and glared at himself. So, there it was, and realising that he was nothing more than a hook-up after all made him feel sick to his toes. As he stormed from the bathroom, the light cast out through the dark bedroom and Mickey's anger and sadness dissipated like steam through a vent.

“Jesus, Ian,” he sighed with a slight giggle for there, on the floor beside the bed, wrapped tight in all of the quits, was a very snug, very much dead-asleep Ian Gallagher. Either he had claimed the floor in a chivalrous gesture, or the lanky idiot had rolled out of bed and the quilts had cushioned him enough for it not wake him up. Watching for a minute, Mickey let his eyes take in the sight of Ian sleeping, his face soft and peaceful and his hair a mess, sticking up all over the place, leg bent up and out to the harsh chill in the room. Mickey felt his skin chilling further and decided that moving Ian would benefit both of them; he could get his blankets back and Ian wouldn't suffer an achy back or aggravate his bruised ass any more than he already had.

He padded over to Ian, making sure the bathroom door stayed open enough to be able to see and not step on him, tugging the quilt down a touch to get a good look at his face, “Ian? Hey, sleepy-face, wake up for me?”

Ian flinched a little, like he heard Mickey, but not enough, and screwed his nose up and sighed deeply, snuggling his face towards the warmth of Mickey's hand on the quilt. Mickey was smiling, he couldn't stop himself, and he reached up to run his hand through Ian's scruffy hair gently, “Hey, c'mon twinkle toes, wake up for me. I know you hear me and I'd like to think you'd prefer sleeping with me than like this, hm? Wakey wakey.”

“Mmmm,” Ian shifted and breathed out heavily again, turning and pinning Mickey's hand under the side of his head with a smile, “Mickey.”

“Ian, you're on the fuckin' floor man,” Mickey chuckled, scratching his fingers into Ian's scalp to wake him up better. If he had to, he wasn't opposed to shoving the skater or shaking him awake like he had done to Louie on more than a billion occasions. Gentle wasn't his usual approach, but then this wasn't Louie or some roguish guy.

“Huh? I'm... how the hell'd I get down here Mick?” Ian's sleep beaten voice was so low and brash that Mickey had to clamp his mouth shut and suck in a deep breath before he groaned through a violent shiver. Jesus Christ, this guy was constantly hitting him like a truck and he wasn't even forcing it. Ian blinked his doe eyes open and Mickey gave him a soft smile, moving to tug him up and back to bed with all of his quilts, “Can't you sleep down here with me?”

“Nope. Get up, c'mon, I want my quilts back, thief.”

“Shit. D'I pull 'em all off?” Ian was moving at least now, unravelling himself from the confines of his cocoon and sluggishly following Mickey as he crawled onto the bed and made to grab at Ian's waist as he followed.

“Don't worry about it,” Mickey mumbled, getting a firm hold of Ian's warm hips and pulling him flush against his front, his chilled skin making Ian yelp and quickly envelope them both in the body-warmed quilts.

“Fuck, I'm sorry Mickey,” Ian said sadly, dipping to bear hug Mickey and kiss his shoulder, “S'get you warm again. M'sorry,” he kept muttering _I'm sorry, so sorry_ into Mickey's skin with every little kiss he pressed sleepily against his shoulder or neck and Mickey couldn't stop his smile, feeling stupid for even thinking Ian would bolt out of the door the second he could.

“Hey, what time do you have to be up?” Mickey asked quietly, enjoying the warmth and solid heat of Ian's chest against his, the press of his thighs against his own.

Ian pulled back and frowned as he thought, and then smiled a little, kissing Mickey's temple, keeping his lips there as he spoke quietly, “I have a break-day so no particular time. I can do whatever I like, as long as I spend at least an hour skating. Can't just skip out entirely, but then an hour or two of mediocre refreshment skating is nothing to me, not a big deal, I can suffer,” he snorted when Mickey scoffed at him, “Why'd you ask?”

“Wondered if you wanted an alarm put on for you. I got a break-day too, but gym in the evening. I don't need to get up but I usually wake up for some sadistic fucking reason around eight. I hate that. I want to sleep for like, a week,” Mickey's bitching got him a little, sleepy laugh of agreement and line of soft kisses down from his temple to his jaw. This affectionate shit was breaking him into bits and normally he'd be kicking the guy across the room with a solid foot to the gut – but Ian? He couldn't even begin to piece together as to why he should put a stop to what he was doing. He didn't want him to stop. A half buried part of his brain, behind the clog of sleep and the haze of feeling cared about, was questioning why that was, and why he wasn't freaking out about it. _Dad_ , was all he could think of.

“You're sweet. I don't need an alarm, but I could do with going back to my room in the mornin' so, wake me up when you're ready to kick me out,” Ian sighed as he shifted his knees to spread them a little, pulling Mickey nice and snug to him, dropping his head over Mickey's shoulder to bury his nose the soft hairs of his nape.

“What if I wanted you out now?” Mickey asked softly, shivering despite trying so damn hard not to, but Ian saw it as reaction to being cold and not to him being _everywhere_. Ian merely held him tighter, circling his fingers on Mickey's naked back.

“Then I'd kiss you goodbye and go without questioning it. You want me to go, Mickey?” Ian asked, not hint of hurt or judgement in his voice, just open curiosity and that low hum of sleep still.

That made Mickey swallow his tongue and stumble for some decent words to answer with, “I like that you, I dunno, understand? Nah, it's just, well, you _get it_ ,” Mickey tipped his face to the side and wrapped his arms around Ian's lower back, his cheek finding a place on Ian's warm shoulder. “Know what I'm sayin' at all?”

“Yahuh, I do,” Ian chuckled and gave Mickey a little squeeze to prove that, “Want me to go then?”

Ian made to move when Mickey didn't immediately answer, but that was because he was too busy enjoying the hug and the warmth, steadily falling into a doze, so he jolted and held him tight, “No, I don't want you to go, but it's nice to know you would if I asked and not kick up a fuckin' shit storm over it. Eh, I'm warm now so, s'go back to sleep and _you_ , no fuckin' rollin' off the bed and stealin' my shit again.”

“Then give me something to anchor onto so I don't,” Ian said, pushing against Mickey until he gave and lay back, shifting and moving around until he was comfortably lay on his front hugging a pillow so Ian could slot against him, arm under Mickey's head and the other hung lazily over his waist. “Thank you. For letting me stay,” he said quietly, kissing Mickey's shoulder and holding onto his wrist.

Mickey smiled and nuzzled into his pillow further, “Shut up, mumbles, wasn't about _letting_ you. You're warm and I ain't so...” _I wanted to_. Ian didn't say anything to that, but Mickey could hear him smile, a light hum as he settled his head down behind Mickey's, his breathing against Mickey's skin a steady sound he found lulling him to sleep.

 

Waking up in exactly the same position was nice, though his body was stiff and protesting under Ian's dead-weight as the skater had shifted a little, completely draped over Mickey from the waist down, his leg bent up high enough that his knee might as well be pressing Mickey's nipple through to his back.

“Goddamn human straight jacket,” Mickey said to himself, lifting his arm to get Ian's off and over without waking him, carefully plucking his fingers from his wrist and ushering his leg back. He sat up and made sure to tuck the quilts back in around his redheaded bed-mate, stroking said hair softly before he got up to put on a fluffy robe and drag his sleepy legs to the kitchen to the coffee machine. He shushed it violently when it kicked off with a vicious hiss, leaning to see if the noise had disturbed Ian and closed his eyes on a heavy sigh when he found Ian sitting up in bed, quilts around his waist, a foot poking out and a massive, dopey smile on his face. “Shit. M'sorry, didn't mean to wake you up – stupid fucking thing!” he bitched at the machine, its hissing only increasing in objection.

“You leavin' the bed woke me up,” Ian yawned, watching Mickey as he wandered around the breakfast bar back towards the bedroom, leaning on the arch of the wall to study sleepy Ian in daylight. He was gorgeous to look at; pale, but peachy from a warm bed and sleep, a crease along his right side from the quits, his hair stuck up at all angles, his mouth puffy and bright red and those eyes, bright under heavy lids and trained on Mickey like he was the _only_ thing Ian could see. The bite marks Mickey had made stood out along his skin, red and perfectly shaped by Mickey's mouth and tongue and the sight was settling something primal in his belly, a prideful affirmation that, because Ian wasn't hiding them or bashful in the slightest, he was happy Mickey had done it as much as Mickey was that he had his own. Pleased with himself, with what had occurred last night. No regret. No worry, like he knew Mickey wasn't freaking out or desperate to fuck him off out the door. Because he wasn't, at all, in fact, he'd rather Ian stayed put all day if he could.

“Morning,” Mickey smiled, quiet and a touch giddy as Ian blinked slowly, one eye after the other, smiling back just as soft.

“Hey,” he answered, the word to Mickey's ears like some angelic praise or harp music because it had him smiling like an idiot, flushing warm and forgetting everything for a second with Ian looking at him like that, speaking to him like Mickey was everything he could ever need. Jesus, didn't that just make his heart bang in his neck.

“Coffee?”

Ian stretched and crawled forward, rolling the quilts over until he was kneeing his way off the bed to stand up. Mickey heart threatened to give out because yes, he'd seen plenty of Ian the night before, _plenty_ , but there was something about seeing him in his skin-tight boxers and all soft from sleep, wobbly legged and frowning playfully that was driving his mind off to another realm, the one where memories filed away under lock and key. He knew he'd cut his feet off if the promise was seeing this man every morning, like this, for the rest of his days. He was deep in the pool of 'gone' that he kind of wanted to drown. “Would you mind giving me something else?”

Shit. Did he have any tea? “I, uh, think there might be some … tea...” his mouth stopped working as Ian got close enough to slide his soft palms over Mickey's exposed collarbone, up his neck to cup his jaw and ears.

“Wasn't thinking of tea,” Ian shook his head a little as he smiled, having to dip quite a bit to plant a soft kiss to Mickey's mouth as he was slouched and _melting_. Giving no protest to this action, because _why_ , Mickey stood slowly as Ian ducked in and kissed him again, a little harder, longer and there it was again, that intake of air through his nose like he'd been punched and Mickey's hands shot up to cup his head and hold onto his shoulder blade, anchoring himself before he floated off.

“I've said it once, I'll say it on loop,” Ian spoke against his mouth as he turned his head to kiss from another angle, “I could kiss you all day. I can't get enough of your lips, Jesus Mickey, they're delicious and soft and _so_ damn responsive.”

“You realise they're controlled by me, right?” Mickey sassed and got a hot tongue in his mouth for it, not a punishment, but he'd suffer it. The coffee machine beeping its end cycle had Ian pulling back slowly, pecking along Mickey's cheek to his ear and down his jaw before pulling away completely, turning Mickey's moping ass towards the kitchenette with a snort of laughter. “You ain't the only one who enjoys this kissing, you know?” Mickey grumbled, hoping Ian hadn't heard him as he was fishing around in the closet for a robe because he had _not_ meant to say that out loud. Truth always comes out in the end, so they say.

“What coffee do you have?” Ian asked as he appeared in a robe, tying the sash before sitting on the stool. Mickey pulled a face that suggested he had no idea, and glanced at the clock on wall as he opened up a cupboard to sift through the colourful boxes. “I have those - I guess we all do. So, to save you time, blue, please?”

It was quarter past eight, which wasn't fair but hating his body clock couldn't be good, so Mickey held back the internal berating to focus on removing his cappuccino and putting on the blue capsule, “What's this one then?”

Ian hummed, a deep sound that had Mickey turning to eye him, finding Ian staring straight at his ass and not even attempting to hide the fact, eyes locked on as he spoke, “Decaffeinated latte with extra creamer.”

Trying not to react to the heated stare as it raked up his back to his eyes, Mickey sniffed and raised one eyebrow, “Not a caffeine fan this early?”

“At all. Or red wine, or strong cheese, flashing lights... they all give me migraines,” Ian smiled at Mickey's dawning of understanding. So that's why he did what he had before. Ian really had been concerned and trying to help and Mickey had been nothing more than a big, fat liar. Still, as he stared at Ian's smile and his knowing eyes, he couldn't feel bad. Look where he'd gotten himself.

“I'll make sure I remember that,” Mickey said softly, setting the machine off with a hiss before turning to lean over the breakfast bar, arms locked and eyes taking in Ian's hair colour with fascination; how on earth there were so many different shades, and to his eyelashes too, he'd never know, but he'd wonder at it forever no doubt. His own black hair wasn't magical like this, occasionally catching a dark brown shade in certain lights, a blue haze in the sun, but there was orange, fiery copper and bright red, intense and dull shades on the skaters pretty head and it was fucking with Mickey's mind. Ian was staring back with a curious grin and Mickey couldn't help but wonder what the hell he saw when he looked at him if Mickey couldn't see enough, was enthralled by him in seconds.

“You look like you're having some kind of internal war there, Mickey. What can you see?” Ian whispered, trailing his fingers over his tattoo knuckles without breaking eye contact, and his eyes, so bright and blue this morning.

“I see you,” Mickey smiled, accepting the press of Ian's forehead to his as he laughed, pushing at his shoulder.

“Beautiful dork boy, seriously, where's my fake coffee?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shorts on, Princess,” Mickey teased, looking serious through it as he turned to get the mug and pass it over. He smiled and then immediately sighed when his phone chimed on the coffee table. He opened the text and his face must have blanked out because Ian was frowning at him, he could see the crease on his face, an ugly line that shouldn't be there.

“Everything OK?” Ian asked gently, as if Mickey would spook and jump out of the window.

Shaking his head and dropping the phone, Mickey pinched between his eyes to ward off the headache, “Louie's up and comin'.”

Ian's face blanked out and Mickey fought not to laugh, “Ah, shit.”

“Yeah. Should put some clothes on, lessen the questioning. Jesus, it's too fuckin' early for him,” Mickey sighed, his default reaction to hurricane Louie.

“Always too early for him though, isn't it?” Ian chuckled, putting down his coffee to go dress, snatching up the strewn items of his littering the rooms. His shoes had separated, one under the coffee table, the other by the bed and Mickey smiled, watching him bend and snatch at everything, pulling his own jumper down from the top of the fridge. They dressed quickly, Mickey in fresh clothes while Ian sniffed at himself and deemed his clothes fine, not asking for anything to help him smell better or for a spare shirt because if Louie was going to launch into an AK round of questioning, Ian's clothes weren't really going to add to the fire.

“Here,” Mickey threw a can of body spray at him anyway.

“I could hide in the bathroom? In the closet?” Ian offered as he refreshed himself, spaying around his crotch as an after thought. Mickey shook his head and rubbed his cheek.

“Nah man, you can't go back in there,” he grinned as Ian rolled his eyes, throwing the can back, “No need to hide from him. I ain't about that.”

“Wasn't suggesting you were. Just, it's nice when it's only the two of us who know anything, you know?” Ian walked towards him, running his hands down Mickey's arms and sending his skin into a raging eruption of goosebumps. “I know we weren't being secretive or anything, but this little bubble- know what, my brain is half asleep still, I can't explain it properly.”

“I get it,” Mickey smiled softly, greedily accepting the kiss Ian gave him, twisting their fingers together. The knock on the door had them both breathing out in preparation, heavy and exasperated. “He already knows we've gotten, I don't know, close? He was a nightmare, so this... just, if you wanna bail now, I honestly fuckin' understand, I do.”

Ian smiled as Mickey slowly edged towards the door and sat on the sofa, flicking through a magazine about the resort like he'd been doing it for ages, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary, “Not going to do that.”

“Mornin' moo,” Louie grumbled once the door was opened to him and Mickey burst out laughing on sight; Louie was severely hungover, hair a mess, pale-faced and blackened eyes and looking like he hadn't slept in a year. “Ah, fuckin' shut up, Jesus.”

“You look like pan fried death. Come in, s'get coffee in you, idiot,” Mickey chuckled, leaving Louie to drag his feet over the threshold, dumping himself on the stool heavily with his head in his hands. He hadn't seen Ian yet, too busy focusing on his feet, probably so he didn't vomit or cry from moving too much. “You want another?”

Louie lifted his face and scowled and Mickey had to bite his lip not to laugh at his sorry state, “The hell? You just-”

“Add a sugar, please?” Ian said from where he was perusing the articles on skiing from what Mickey could see. He watched as Louie's face distorted from agony to confusion and further into shock and child-like excitement in about two seconds flat. He turned slowly on his stool, eyes on Mickey until he had to look away, staring at Ian.

“Well spank my ass and call me Sally!” Louie exclaimed, rushing to cover his head at the noise, “Ah shit.”

“I would, but I think you'd be too into that,” Ian teased back, barely looking at Louie or Mickey while Mickey was beside himself with amusement, fussing to get the machine going. There was silence for a while, it lasted long enough for Mickey to have all three coffees done, and Louie had glanced between the other two constantly, biting his lip until it got too much to handle.

Finally, Louie slammed his hands on the breakfast bar, “Fucking can't keep it in any longer, so I'm just gonna come out with it – you guys fucked, right?”

“Jesus Christ man,” Mickey laughed incredulously, trying to sip through the foam of his coffee without burning his lip or blowing it everywhere with the gush of air he let out.

Ian calmly put the magazine down and moved to sit on the other stool next to Louie, cradling his latte while watching Louie bounce with anticipation, “Now, why would we tell you anything?”

“Motherfucking- I helped guide your lost souls together! I'm his best friend! You like me, hell, I'm _Louie_ for fuck sake, you tell me the details. OK, not the nasty stuff, but _c'mon_ , give me somethin' here.”

“I could just be here for coffee, you know that right?” Ian supplied and Louie moaned into his hand.

“I know it isn't that, dumb ass-”

“Or he crashed here because he got so hammered last night that, after we came up here to hang out and drink more beer, he passed out on the floor,” Mickey said offhandedly, nodding along with Ian, “Could be that, Lou.”

Louie was losing his shit, “No, I know it isn't! Jesus, please tell me you hooked up and it wasn't meaningless and you might keep at it because I've never seen two people so perfectly suited actually hitting it off like you two, and Mickey is more tolerable-”

“ _Fucker_!”

“-and he smiles more and it's adorable, and you Ian, you're so nice and kind and I just... you get on _really_ fuckin' well and I want you both to be happy, I do, and if that's together, well I consider that the fuckin' jackpot at the end of the boy loving rainbow! Come on, please tell me if you did? It'd make my day a hell of a lot fuckin' better. Uh, you _so_ didn't crash here and stayed for coffee or otherwise, assholes,” Louie finished his blabbering with a deep inhale, watching Mickey chew his lip and Ian pop up an eyebrow, smiling like a child up to no good.

“I did crash here,” Ian said sweetly, sipping at his coffee some more and almost spitting it out when Louie blinked, deadpan and emotionless. Mickey held his grin in check, narrowing his eyes at the mug in his hand.

“Seriously?” he asked flatly, eyeing both Ian and Mickey like they'd just kicked his husky, Thor, down the street and said it was an accident.

“Yeah, he crashed here, Lou,” Mickey breathed, looking up to catch Louie's unimpressed frown, “And he did end up on the floor at some point, stole the fuckin' quilts and rolled right off."

“Didn't mean to.”

Mickey watched Louie frown harder, “But, you know, crashin' usually comes after bangin' so...” Mickey trailed off, shrugging into his coffee as Ian sniffed and licked his teeth. Louie eyed them both, unsure of it either were telling any kind of truth after all of that, it was clear to see.

“Don't fuckin' lie to please me, assholes. You're too bland about it so I can't tell if you did or not! Kiss! Oh my god, kiss Mickey,” he shoved at Ian's shoulders and then stopped, “No, you've done that so it's-”

“Fuckin' H, here, numbnuts,” Mickey sighed, pulling down the collar of his plaid shirt to show off his bruised up neck.

“Yeah, that's not gonna help me now is it? Already seen what this vampire can do, thanks,” Louie snorted, watching Ian tug down his collar, showing off the big, angry looking oval that Mickey had spent a decent amount of time sucking into bloom. “See, I know he left some on you too, so that's fuck all.”

“Jesus, we fucked, real good. So fuckin' good that I pretty much passed out right after. You nag like a bitch and then refuse to believe us when we're showing you proof of the fucking? Jesus Louie, you're impossible,” Mickey rubbed his forehead as Ian stood up, moving to stand next to Mickey so he could pull his shirt open and show Louie more marks for a reason only he knew.

“You skirted the damn question to start with, bro.”

Ian touched the lighter ones first, saying _old_ , then pressing near the new, darker ones, saying _last night_ , turning Mickey to show Louie some sitting in the dip of his shoulders, pressing his fingers in to get Mickey to hiss, loving the fact that he was facing the cupboards because _shit_. Ian's hand trailed down his spine towards his ass as he darkly muttered, “Gave him those when I was pounding his-”

Louie squawked and waved his hands, stopping Ian's hands and halting Mickey's flush of arousal. “Fuck! No, all right, I'm breaking your balls here, I know you're tellin' the truth. I knew you'd been fucking because I know the look on Mickey's face when he's gotten laid, only this time? S'much more relaxed and glowy,” Louie smirked, ducking from Ian's slap. “Just wanted to hear you say it so I didn't have to live my day out wondering 'cause that shit drives me up the wall, bro.”

“Huh, kind of a little shit aren't you?” Ian flashed his eyebrows up and hooked Mickey around the neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. This ginger giant was quickly becoming Mickey's favourite. “I have to go check stuff and, yeah, I'll get out of your hair. Text you later, Mick.”

Mickey felt his stomach drop a little and put his mug down, walking Ian to the door while Louie gave them a sad little frown, earning him the middle finger from both Ian and Mickey. “OK. Guess I'll hear from you?”

“Yeah, you will,” Ian turned and wrapped his arms around Mickey's shoulders, kissing his neck out of sight of Louie, probably to save Mickey' ass from more chewing. So, deciding to just do as he pleased, Louie wasn't just anybody, no random passer-by, no homophobic asshole, Mickey turned Ian's face to his and kissed him soundly, pressing and moving his lips while thumbing Ian's jaw. Louie sighed loud enough for them to break apart and squint at his love-struck, sicky face.

“Shut up,” Mickey snapped and Louie scoffed, smirking and winking at them, “Take him with you?”

“Fuck _that_. See you,” Ian opened the door and sauntered off down the hall. Mickey hated seeing him leave, but his ass was a nice thing to watch for a second, so he could deal.

“Yo, Mick?” Louie caught his attention and had him back inside with his cold coffee, “You're getting in deep there, bro, I see it written all over you.”

Mickey scratched at his neck and went about washing up the mug, “Yeah. Well.”

“Hey, it's not a bad thing, I think it's fuckin' awesome if you want my opinion and, if you want to hear it or not, he has the same look plastered all over him. Has it every time he's got you in his sight, if I'm honest,” Louie said casually, moving to give Mickey his mug, “I told you, Louie sees all.” Mickey couldn't help but feel warm from that, fighting not to smile when Louie bumped him with his hip. “So, you're the goalie huh?”

“Jesus, Louie put a sock in that hole you call a mouth,” Mickey sighed, ignoring his friends laughter as he moved away to plant himself in front of the TV, putting on the highlights of the Games to check over the overall performance of team USA, muttering _not judging you moo, it's just your bullish attitude would suggest otherwise_. “Liking what I like, Lou.”

“Yeah, not a bitch, I get it. I never said you were though so pack that in. M'happy for you so I gotta rib you over it. Rules, bro.”

Mickey spent his morning watching TV with Louie, the blond occasionally adding his own curse-filled commentary when he saw something he disagreed with or disliked, much to Mickey's amusement. Time rolled around and they found themselves hungry around two in the afternoon, having dozed off on the sofa for an hour, cuddling. It wasn't awkward, that's what Mickey told himself, waking up to find Louie nuzzling his neck and toying with his waistband in his sleep. He'd shoved him away carefully, leaving him to wake up on his own a few minutes later while Mickey was taking a leak in the bathroom. Not awkward.

“Mandy text me this morning, said I was an alcoholic, imposing butt ache,” Louie said as they left Mickey's room, “Think she'll kill me if we grab her for lunch? I kinda want to say I'm sorry, but I'm not, she's got a mouth, she's an adult, she could've stopped drinking like Jack Sparrow at any point.”

Mickey pursed his mouth as they took the stairs, “Not getting into this. I left before the damage was done so I don't have to say a fuckin' word. Apologise or don't, not my problem, it's yours."

“Your sister.”

“Your friend. DNA means fuck all right now, so, suck it up, buy her a lobster or a really cheesy pulled pork burrito, you know she likes those messy things, whatever,” Mickey hopped down the last few steps and shoved the door open to the lobby, spotting Seth and Milo talking to some guys dressed in blue and white.

“Oh, Finland played today. Think they won?” Louie asked as they walked straight for their teammates.

“If they lost, I gotta wonder who _the fuck_ they were up against and if we get 'em next 'cause fuck that in the eye with a fork laced with hot sauce. No, not playin' that, we'll _die_.”

Louie snorted and shoved at Mickey from behind, “Drama llama.”

“Sup guys,” Seth waved them over, the Finnish players leaving with nods and smiles. Such a bubbly bunch, even if they spoke monotonous most of the time, “Finland won.”

“Thank fuck. I'd rather play them than the team who beats them,” Mickey breathed, “Anything else?”

“Nah, s'all anyone knows. Not allowed to discuss shit, you know that. Where you heading off to, boys, got a date?” Seth leered, getting a thump off Milo for it.

“Stop it man, it's gross,” Milo scowled, too nice for his own good that one.

“Lunch. Fuckin' starvin'. Going now, weirdos, got a Mandy to find and burrito shack to hunt down,” Louie frowned, ushering Mickey out into the cold before Seth could stop his stomach from getting filled. No matter the amount of layers he had on, or the thickness of his coat and scarf and gloves, the cold air would never stop beating on him and it was another level of cold, Mickey realised as he did all he could to keep the warmth in coat _in his coat_.

They found Mandy after a few missed calls and a nasty text from Mickey, down in the guests area inside a Mexican restaurant with some girls she'd made friends with. They freaked right out when they saw Mickey sit down, and then Louie, well, the sight of him sent them into orbit. Mandy hushed them and begged them to _shut the fuck up_ before they got hounded. The boys weren't in their kit so they could blend if they kept it down and Mickey was half tempted, by the time he had his mouth around a fajita, to choke the blonde fussing over Louie's biceps. Jesus. She was cooing and touching and laughing like a banshee with every line out of Louie's not-flirting mouth, and that in and of itself told Mickey how uncomfortable his friend was.

Mandy snorted at something the blonde said, making Louie flush bright red, and leaned into Mickey's space with a mouth full of pulled pork, “Got a phone call this morning, thought you might want to know.”

“Good for you, hey?” Mickey said sarcastically, hissing when she pinched his thigh.

“Jesus, you know what? Thought you might want in on it considering it concerns your sour fuckin' ass, but you can shove your chicken fajita where the sun goes to die,” she grouched, moving away to wipe a sweet potato fry through some sour cream. Blonde tittered some more and her hand shot under the table towards Louie's lap, and Mickey raised his brows at Louie's petrified stare. OK, enough.

“Hey, fuck that Spaniard I sent for you the other night?” Mickey asked bluntly, thoroughly enjoying the glare blondie shot at him before snapping it to Louie's smug grin, shoving away from the table to leave in a flurry of swears. None of her friends followed, instead, they sighed in relief and settled better, sticking with Mandy and her dirty smile.

“I did. Meant to tell you, but then again, we all have our secrets right?” Louie's tone had Mickey staring right through him as Mandy's attention snapped to the side of his face. “Oops.”

“I fuckin' hate you sometimes,” Mickey hissed.

Mandy tugged down his collar and smirked, “I see you wouldn't kick firecracker out of your bed either, hm?”

“Nope.”

“Was it good?”

“Exceptional.”

“More than a tumble?” Mandy wondered, eyeing Louie as he leaned forward and began charming the pants off the brunette sitting to his right.

“Uh huh, hoping so.”

“Good.”

“So tell me about this phone call,” Mickey quickly shifted their coded conversation to pastures new, though Mandy's face fell a bit and she sighed heavily. Oh shit. “What?” he asked, careful to swallowed his mouthful before she spoke so he didn't choke on it.

“Dad called. Said he's not coming after all but then we knew it was goin' to be hard for him to get time off work. Says he'll Skype you tonight or something if he can catch you. Pops isn't happy about it, but what can you do, eh?”

“Jesus Mandy, you looked like someone had fuckin' died!” Mickey rushed, feeling shitty, but not so much now he knew his dad wasn't dead or something. “So, he can't come, no big deal, s'just a game. I told him this, he should know I don't mind and I ain't goin' to kick off about it.”

“Not just a game though is it?” Mandy sighed, watching brownie melt under Louie's heated smiles, “ _Jesus_. No, it's a big deal to him, and you're his son so, understand where he's coming from maybe?”

“I.. all right, you got me there. I'll call him later if I can,” he shrugged, munching on his chicken to shut her up. His loved his dad, and Pops, so not having them there did suck major ass, but he wasn't going to throw a fit over it, it was what it was. Though, now he thought about it, it was down to them and their care that had him where he was because, without either of them and their encouragement, he'd be nothing more than a clock puncher in some deadbeat job he hated. Dean had been his and Mandy's saving grace after some drunk, vengeful asshole had called CPS on Terry when Mickey was eleven and Mandy nine. Terry had short-handed him some coke, or something, so he picked up the phone and when the CPS had arrived to find beaten and neglected kids, a house full of mould and dirt, guns and weapons, drugs and prostitutes, well, they had a field day with the grungy Milkovich bastard, calling in police to haul his ass out after he'd picked Mickey up and held a knife to his neck to get them to back the fuck up. So many charges on Terry saw him beaten with The Book and locked up until the day he left in a coffin, his abrasive temper making sure he never got parole, Iggy and Joey skipping out and vanishing like dust on the breeze.

Mickey had no idea where they were, but he found he cared little about it if they could just scatter when he needed them the most. Dean had been their first foster parent after sitting in the half-way house for six months, and he'd never looked back, never hurt or pushed either of them, never threatened to send them away again, but had helped them by being a friend first; caring, nurturing, guiding them out of their shells, showing them how to 'be' without fears he vehemently argued they should have never gained in the first place. That he lived in up-state Chicago, was a retired Paramedic, a big house in a nice area, was a bonus because they got to go to a good school, dress better, make friends and _live_. Being married to Richard allowed Mickey to witness a happy relationship between two men without fears or worry, seeing it for what it was, love, helping him to embrace what and who he was. They adopted Mickey at sixteen but allowed him to keep his surname because theirs just didn't go, it would ruin him for life he's taken theirs – Mowce. Jesus. Mandy kept hers too, just on principle, not that either of their dads minded. They got them into after school clubs, sent them to camps, got Mandy into business studies in college so she could pursue her dream of owning her own, and Mickey into ice hockey after seeing him do well in the school hockey team on roller-blades when he was thirteen. That a scout was at one of his first big games on ice was just pure luck and at sixteen, he'd gotten signed to a junior team for the state of Chicago, meeting Louie, his dads supporting him no matter what, and ten years later, here he was. Who to thank? His dads, or the fucktard who called CPS? Both.

“Dad not coming?” Louie asked, breaking him out of his stroll down memory lane. Mickey shook his head and mopped up the sauce on his plate with his pita. “Sucks man.”

“No, it doesn't really. If it makes me feel shit, you gotta believe they're feeling worse man, so, s'not talk about it, OK?” Mickey grumped, inhaling some of his Pepsi while Louie gave a nod and stretched. He didn't want his parents feeling shit, and he didn't want to think they were because that hurt him.

Louie dropped the subject, “Gym later.”

“Yep.”

“Hah, so glad I don't do this shit. Gymnastics just wasn't for me, oh sigh,” Mandy teased, earning a shove off Mickey that sent her chair skidding away a bit. She scowled and scooted back to the table, “Right, I'm up for shopping if you girls fancy coming?” she suggested to the two young women who had stayed, and they agreed with smiles.

“Laters, Mand-ay!” Louie forced a southern lilt and Mickey shook his head, chewing his toothpick.

“Bye, assholes,” she kissed Mickey's cheek and Louie's head, leaving with her new friends.

“This is so a date now and it's weird, fuck, let's go?” Louie looked like he was horror stricken and Mickey laughed, calling for the check for Louie to pay because, why not? He felt odd for the rest of the day, taking it out on the punching bag in the gym in the basement of the hotel, running the treadmill into the floor, cycling on the bike until he felt he'd abused it enough, and all the while, ignoring Louie's sad glances and the questioning off his team mates by hooking up some headphones to his Ipod. He didn't want to feel shitty about it, but he couldn't stop the spiral into sadness, and left without a word once they were let go, heading to set up his laptop so he could catch the Skype call, the one that never came in the end. He'd missed the window and sulked through his shower, only finding mild happiness in bed with the smell of one skater lingering on his pillow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't the best, but then again, i needed to do it so the rest flows better. hope you liked it :) (was bad in terms of what I can do, so, yeah. Sorry)
> 
> (i saw someone post on tumblr about how they'd like to see Mickey and Mandy raised by gay parents, so they turned out better as people, able to connect and have stability in life and i was like - are you in my head here or what?! cause i had this penned out by that point, just needed to check over it.)


	9. Knock Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has a rough night and sees just how people care. The team and the skaters have to share space and it leads to a knock out. Ian comforts Mickey in the best possible way and Mickey realises he's getting in deep with this one, but he can't find it in himself to mind all that much. (this is HUGE compared to the others but, i think three or four pages is just steamy sexy times...................... yeah. s'true.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH my GOSH your love, you guys, I'm dying here with it all - *clutches chest and braces against the wall* 
> 
> Warning: Mentions of anxiety and depression. Swears, as always. Injury, trauma and smut. Uh huh. Think of it as a little boost for you guys being so kind about my filler chapter :) enjoy!!!! ahahaha Moo is getting a-milked! ;) Blackhawks - Chicago Blackhawks, Chicago's Ice Hockey team. Redwings - The Detroit Redwings. I'm picking teams as i go, as and when i feel the need to explain where certain guys are from. A US team would consists of players from different teams and when i looked at them, there ain't too many you know, most are Canadian and Canada has it's own team. But damn, loads around New York. Interesting - to me lol not to you, cos well, yeah... *waves you off while lighting smoke (i do not condone smoking, though i smoke myself, if you dont, dont start)* g'on, you got some readin' to do right? :D

 

“Hey, where've you been?” Mickey stopped dead in his march through the lobby of the hotel and took a deep breath, chewing his lip guiltily as he turned to see Louie sitting on one of the sofas, Bart and Jake with him, all of them looking either worried or pissed, Mickey couldn't tell. And in their uniforms with their kit bags and sticks. _Shit_. It was a little after ten in the morning, and he'd totally forgotten that someone had mentioned a session down in the arena today.

“In my room.”

Bart clicked his tongue and sat forward with his elbows on his knees, “Been trying to call you.”

“Phone's been off.”

“Dick move, considering,” Bart sniffed, waving a hand around as he gave Mickey a very unimpressed look, enough to keep his snappy reply in check. He wanted to sigh explosively and flip them all off, say _fuck you_ , or off, and leave, but their looks stopped him. He was being a dick, he was still part of a team after all, even if he'd felt real alone since leaving the Mexican place. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own for drowning in stupid sulky feelings all night. It wasn't their fault he felt a out of sorts after finding out about his parents, even though he'd never thought they'd be coming in the first place. That it had effected him because of deep thinking and spending the night mulling over the disappointment he shouldn't have felt, or maybe he was allowed to feel, it still wasn't their fault. He suddenly felt like a major asshole.

Approaching them slowly, he let his face crumple a bit, “Look, I'm sorry-”

“Not after an apology, Mick,” Louie said with a heavy breath. “Just... you're OK, yeah?”

“Yeah Mickey, we've been sitting here contemplating coming and knocking on your damn door to see if you're still, y'know, _you_ ,” Jake smiled, trying to make him feel better probably, and he did a little. Sub or not, he was so glad Jake was part of the team. Even if he hadn't been, the kid had sworn he'd come along just for the kicks because his friends were playing. They might not speak much, do much together, but Jake was a constant in Mickey's life that was subdued, but _there_.

“You forget that those of us who know you from home, _really_ know you,” Bart stood up and moved into Mickey's space, grabbing his shoulders tight with his massive hands, “We know this kinda thing gets to you even if you swear fuckin' blind it doesn't. You know it's not good to shut us out like that.”

“Yeah, I should have said somethin',” Mickey agreed, swallowing with unease at the affectionate gesture. It felt forced even though it really wasn't. He did forget, a lot of the time, and boy didn't that make him feel shittier. Those Blackhawks of his, the small cluster, and those from Detroit that they met up with most of the year, playing against or just for laughs, they all knew how bad he could sink sometimes whenever he let his mind run riot. He couldn't explain to them why he shut them out, a little at a time or completely, that was just how he did things. Thank fuck the rest of the guys had no idea. If they all knew he got deep into depression and had panic attacks, well... that'd be like a chick in a coop full of fucking hens. He loved them all, but Jesus no. He was grateful enough that they all got along and seemed to have some kind of bond going, a friendship because of this mashed together team they'd been in for the last few years. He had his circle, there was no need that he could see to open it up into a damn oval the size of Lake Tahoe and have everyone he knew knowing his business.

“Too fuckin' right you should have. Even just a 'I feel shitty, I'm gonna go hibernate for the night' or 'I'm OK, just feeling a bit blergh, gonna turn off my phone, but I'm all right'. Asshole,” Bart smiled, shoving Mickey's shoulder a little to get him smiling.

Scratching his neck, Mickey had to wonder, “The, uh, the rest of the guys don't-”

Louie waved his hands and shook his head softly, “Bro, I told them you had a shifty lookin' fajita. They didn't question it. Just us Chic boys know, no fear. OK, so Seth wondered, and Jake and Milo nagged, but then Redwinged boys are fuckin' nosey bastards.” That made him feel far better; nobody else knew. Thank _fuck_.

“Fuck _off_ , Fael,” Jake snapped, landing a hard punch to Louie's thigh even though he was pleading that he was messing with him. Bart frowned and ignored them for the most part.

“Don't want to be an ass right now, but we have practise and you're not getting out of it unless you want coach coming down on you. All things considered, if you really don't want to attend he will understand but you'll still get your ass handed to you before he does his mama spiel,” Bart chuckled and Mickey thumbed his lip, nodding because what else could he do? He had to go change like lightning and get the fuck out of the hotel before any of them got a chewing for lateness.

“Be ten minutes, tops,” Mickey fist bumped Bart's meaty shoulder and turned to run up the stairs; the amount of athletes waiting for the elevators would have him going up and down for God knew how long so he hiked his legs as fast as he could up the stairwell. When he got to his floor, he fished in his pocket for his phone and switched it back on, dreading what he was going to find. He had planned on doing that once he'd found a quiet spot in the snow somewhere where he could open up Pandora's box but he felt he just better bite the proverbial bullet. He jumped at the opening song as it turned on, threw it down on the kitchen counter and stripped quickly to change into his uniform. He nearly fell over twice, hopping around with his t-shirt half over his head and his tracksuit bottoms half up his legs, but he managed in record time to get dressed, seek out his stick and double check his bag before snatching up the phone, loading up and leaving. He absently checked the handle to his room as he looked down and opened up the lock screen, seeing a cluster of texts. He phone didn't like to tell him of missed calls when it was off, just the voicemails, of which he had no idea how many he had. Knowing he had a fair amount to check, he hit the button and waited for the elevator, thumbing through his texts to work out how many were from his provider _you have a new voicemail_ and from his contacts. He had _a lot_ of unopened messages. He opened up Louie's thread first.

_8:16pm From: Louie_

_U OK Moo?? U legged it._

_8:26pm_

_Bad then? Call me if U get too low, K? U better. Even if it's just for silent company. Stay away from the mini fridge, Jack ain't UR friend when shit hits, U know this. X_

_9:57pm_

_Ian's shitting himself now. Bumped into him. I didn't say anythin, swear, but U know I got a shit pokerface. U should let him know UR OK tho x_

_9:58pm_

_U are OK? Right? X_

_9am_

_Radio silence is killer bro. U good??_

He was glad he hadn't thought to consult the mini fridge, it hadn't even crossed his moping mind, because he'd be suffering worse for it right now. The doors hissed open and he shuffled in, flashing a little smile at the lady in there with her massive bag between her feet.

“Ground floor?” she asked and he nodded, muttering a _please_ to appease her frowning from his lack of interest. So, Ian kind of knew, or did he know everything? He could see the start of his first text, but skirted it to read the other less interesting ones first.

_9:46pm From: Coach_

_You better call the fucking medic if you have damn food poisoning son, I ain't kidding here. Know I have my reserves and shit, but I'd rather not have to use them so soon. Drink plenty. See you tomorrow. Bart will be in the lobby at 10_

_10:27pm From: Barty_

_Doing OK bud? Sleep, yeah? Buzz if u need anythin._

_9:56am_

_Where the fuck are you?! Get your skinny ass down these fuckin' stairs or I'm gonna come shove my foot up it! TBH Mick, you gotta talk to me here. Can't do shit without knowin, use yours words man. Jake's gonna flip a table and Louie is doing my FUCKING HEAD IN! Oh, that skater dude asked after you. You try and lie about him to me and I'll gut you, I can see it on his face so no lyin' Mick. Damn orange boy is real worried about you, it's sickeningly sweet. Ugh. I won't tell, swear. He's nice. You could do worse._

_9:59am_

_HAUL. YO. ASS. Coach just called me and I lied to cover you so fuckin' MOVE!!!!_

Mickey glanced up as he wandered towards his team mates so he didn't trip, and followed without a word into the cold, eyes on his phone as he shuffled along the walkway, looking up every now and then so he avoided hitting anyone or venturing off the wrong way. Louie walked ahead of him with Jake, deep into some discussion about their home teams and cup wins versus Canada's group of teams, and Bart stayed at Mickey's side to give him something to guide his feet with. He kept quite, chuckling a deep, mountainous sound from within his chest every time Louie squealed over an injustice or Jake scoffed at _lies_. Mickey chuckled to himself and dodged a frozen puddle, opening up Ian's thread with shaking fingers. It was cold, yeah his gloves had those little pads to use smart phones, but it was cold. That's what he felt he needed to repeat to himself.

_9:02pm From: TT_

_So, tried calling but it won't connect. I've had some connection issues since being here too lol Sucks! Not in a good way ;) Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't text or anything earlier but I got waylaid by my brother Carl on the hunt for hockey players – he's a huge hockey fan. Took him for food. Then time flew, had to skate, but I wanna come see you if that's OK? Not too late is it? - Ian_

_9:53pm_

_So, I was coming to see you and ran into Louie downstairs. He said to leave you alone for the night. Looked worried. Said you were feeling sick, but, is it bad I don't believe that for a second? He's got a shit game face. Are you OK?? - Ian_

_10:23pm_

_Guess you're asleep? I would like to see you tomorrow. I have training most of the day. Would skip for you though. Don't want to seem clingy or shit, but I know this thing we got going on isn't some random thing, or I hope it isn't at least. I like you and I'm worried and now I know what you must have felt like when I left my phone. Man, I must seem like a creeper or some shit! God, Mick, I'm not, I just talk a lot and texting doesn't escape that. My bro says it's fuckin' annoying. I'm not annoying you am I? Fuck! Look, I just want to know you're OK and if you'd like to share a pizza with me? Don't have explain yourself, not for me to nose at, just wanna know you're OK though. Coz I care about you. Just want you to know that :) Night – Ian x_

God, he felt a little sick over the message, guilty sick and also, very warm and touched by the fact that Ian chattered aimlessly. It was nice that he worried. Still, Mickey felt bad for making him worry in the first place. He knew what the skater meant, after all, he'd freaked right out over him not answering and he'd known jack shit, but Ian had seen Louie. Had heard he was ill, known it was a lie and yet, he hadn't pushed for information, just blurted his worries with his fingers. _I care about you_.

_8:35am From: Mandy_

_Fuckhead, UR boys R freakin out. Call them or somethin! This number is IOE and I got Bartholomew blowing it up! Jesus, if I have 2 haul my ass up there... seriously though, ignore the feelings and shut them away, they R not relevant and U kno it. Just UR head fuckin with U. Dads love U. Way more important, U say so URself. Either call me L8R or suffer an indian burn. UR choice >:D xx_

He smirked at Mandy's vicious text and contemplated sending here back _I am OK bitch_ in one word texts to piss her off. Threaten him with an indian burn? Hah. He checked the voicemail notifications and, seeing four, he decided to leave those until he was warm and comfortable on the train with a belly full of breakfast or brunch foods, and then he would answer Ian and Mandy.

“Hey, Mick, settle this man,” Louie spun to walk backwards as they wandered over the bridge to the station, looking affronted and a little desperate, “Which uniform is better, ours or his?” he pointed at Jake who put his hands up like really? We're doing this? We're doing this.

“I'd have to say ours for fuck sake, I play for the 'hawks idiot. But nah, I like the Maple Leafs.”

“What?!” Both Louie and Bart shouted, shocked, while Jake blew on his fingers and rubbed them on his chest. Smarmy bastard.

“Anything with that leaf on makes me feel good man, not Cherokees or wings or shit, s'probably the syrup's fault. Some kinda memory association, no idea, but yeah, suck it,” Mickey grinned, laughing when he got shoved by Bart and flipped off aggressively by Louie.

Thompson appeared by the turnstiles and clapped Mickey's shoulder hard, making him wobbly dangerously, almost losing his bag in the process, “Oh, I am happy to see _you_. Stomach feeling dicky at all?”

“No Coach, m'good,” Mickey assured and had to grab a hold of the man's arm to stop himself falling when Thompson chortled and shook him lightly. Or what he thought was lightly, to Mickey it felt like an earthquake tremor.

“Fingers broken?”

“No?” Mickey frowned and swore as the pressure on his shoulder increased.

“Then there's no fuckin' reason to not reply to me, you little shit,” Thompson chided, pushing him away with a small smile, “Get on that damn train.”

Once he'd gotten a plate of toast, a bowl of mixed fruit and berries and a tankard of chai tea, Mickey was feeling much better as he munched through his foods, opening up his phone again to listen to the messages.

“You have four new messages. First message, left at eight forty one PM – Hey! Oh shit, this is voicemail?! No way, I thought that was the real you, Jesus, cleverly done Mickey. Uh, so, I was gonna come see you if you feel like it? No pressure, just, let me know, yeah? See you,” Ian's cheerful voice had Mickey smiling to himself, listening as the message faded a little, picking up on Ian cursing out the phone service before it beeped to signal the end.

“Second message, left at nine fifty five PM – Moo, fuck, I'm sorry man. I ran into Ian. He was coming to see you and I didn't know what to do so I told him to keep away and said you were real sick, puking and stuff, and he looked like he totally saw through me like I was glass man. Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry. Dunno if I've made a problem or what here, please man, you gotta talk to me. Ian aside, I'm freakin' out, you just took off. I know how you get. Don't go there. Please? I love yo-ou, baby blue-oo - _shut up Milo, fuck off you son of a bi-_ ” Mickey rolled his eyes and looked down the aisle out of habit to look for Louie. He was charming the hell out of the hostess he'd collared the other day. No change there.

“Third message, left at eight twenty two AM – Yo, Mick, don't forget we got training this morning. Lobby, ten sharp. Don't think I won't come drag you out either, we got shit to do and I know you can't help the way you get sometimes, I understand that, but you gotta come, even if it's bench day for you again. Be there, or be square. Bye.”

“Fourth message, left at eight thirty five AM – hey kid. So sorry we missed you last night, Richard was doing the fuckin' waltz in the living room and knocked the router out so our internet connection was gone for a few hours. You know we wouldn't forget or do anything on purpose, right? We will try and catch you again tonight. Oh, we saw the highlights from your game against Italy. Nice take down! You've got, goodness, mad skills, is it? Whatever it is, haha, we're proud of you. Love you son.”

“Fucking Jesus,” Mickey whispered, ending the connection so he could put his phone down and calm his heart rate. Hearing his dads voice was nothing new, but it had his mind reeling a little bit. He shook it off and popped a blueberry in his mouth, firing off texts.

_10:47AM To: Mandy_

_I'm fine. Speak later, got trainin. Fuck off with the threats Alice, I'm outta the rabbit hole._

_10:48AM To: TT_

_Hey chatterbox. I'm OK, nothing serious, just had a real rough night and needed to be alone for a bit. Nothin you've done. I turned in early and switched my phone off. Pizza sounds good :P – Mick._

 

Mickey dozed off after guzzling his drink, the warmth heaviness in his belly making him drowsier than usual, and he woke up to Bart shaking his shoulder, “C'mon Sleeping Beauty, time to go.”

“Fuck off with that,” Mickey hissed, grouchy and sore from his slumped position. He followed his team out, enjoying the warmer air and the noise of people, vehicles and birds merging in the air.

Thompson was growling into his phone as he lead them through the station, bent on barging through the guests everywhere to get to their arena with little fuss. “Shit. Right, so there's a match on, that we know, the second one is straight after and the teams who are playing are using the other two rinks to warm up. We got nothing to use for an hour, so we gotta go and see if the skaters have a free one, which I'm not sure they do because they got the boys training and the pairs are competing today, and the other rink I'm sure is being used for ice dance practise. We ain't going to the university either 'cause I can barely get you guys to focus as it is without tail everywhere. Leaves me with two options: ask the skaters nicely to see if they'll give up some space for you ladies to warm up on your blades, or I ask to use their sports hall to do some contact sports to warm up instead. It's not as big as the one in resort, but it'll do, so come on,” the man sighed and tipped his head in the direction of the figure skating arena, scowling at it.

“Nice,” Louie said from just behind Mickey, “Is he in there?” he whispered and Mickey shrugged.

“Should think. He's training so, unless they're doing other shit today some place else, he's more than likely in there.”

“I think he'll brighten right up once he sees your ugly fuckin' face,” Louie sassed and Mickey breathed in deep, using his body to ram Louie sidewards into Jake and Milo. The rest of the team was spread out enough, but they all grinned and shuffled further apart, watching with amusement. Bart sighed and marched to the front of the group, ignoring the childish antics.

“Mother- Milo? You got that baby oil?”

“It was Mickey! Fuckin' come near me with that shit and I'll kick your sorry ass into next fuckin' year, Jake-Lynn!”

Jake laughed loud, “Enough with the Lynn bullshit. You know, some people actually think it's my fuckin' middle name, asshole. It's Rupert!”

“Yeah, well, Lynn works better,” Louie scratched his nose and flushed a little, ducking Jake's swing, glaring at Mickey, “This shitbag here managed to convince half the Blackhawk's one season that my actual name was Louisiana. Legit convinced them. Swear on Loki's sceptre that the commentator said it during broadcast once, was mortifying.”

“You shouldn't have tried to pants me,” Mickey burst out laughing, sniggering into his collar to contain himself, “Was a good season.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” Louie griped, sulking with the meanest scowl he could muster. Mickey ignored him in favour of eyeing everyone and everything as they made their way through the grounds, ever aware of guests everywhere, so he kept his head down but his eyes alert until they wandered into the skating arena and got directed through a set of doors that said in red _Sports Personnel Only. No Public Admittance._ In various languages. It was quieter, less hectic and crowded in the corridors. There was a deep thrum of music the lower they went down the sloped hallway, piano tunes and violins, something to dance to no doubt, but Mickey gave no care to that as he scanned the hell out of every corridor that winged off, every open doorway, every alcove, the face of every competitor they passed because though Ian's hair was not easily missed, if he put a hat on or a hood up, he was hard to spot. If the skater didn't want to be seen, he could disappear in a snap – Mickey knew this, he'd seen him do it en route to the public rink, and he knew just how to do it himself.

“In here,” Thompson barked, pushing open on half of heavy set of double doors after fuck knew how many turns and hallways. Mickey wasn't sure he'd get out of there without a map if he was going to skulk off for a smoke at any point. The sports hall was large, not as big as the other in the resort, but big enough to fool around in. He looked around with mild interest and stopped, stock still, where he was when he saw Jason and Max using one another to spin, hands clasped together tight, at the other end of the hall. They were white noise compared to Ian – he was zoned out, wireless earphones cradling his head and dressed in a tight white tank with his tracksuit bottoms hanging low on his hips, barefoot and _dancing_. “Going to chat to their coach. Back in a minute. Don't you dare speak ladies. If you distract those guys, I'm nothing compared to Lana when she's pissed. And don't fucking touch a thing!”

“Coach,” they mumbled, whispered even, and took to the benches lining their end of the hall, sitting as quietly and as softly as a massive cluster of hockey players could. Mickey barely managed to sit properly, relying on the two bodies either side of him to guide his ass down because, holy shit, he couldn't stop staring. He was pretty sure his mouth was falling open too. Ian was doing some kind of ballet, but then he'd speed up and throw himself around like a rag-doll, slow down into that club-esque moving he did in his routines, jump and spin and then slow down into a damn pirouette. He kept repeating it, using the space he had, completely unaware of anything except what he was doing. He was sweaty, Mickey could see his pale skin glistening, and his muscles bunched and rolled with every step he took.

“Wow,” Bart mumbled from his left, bumping Mickey's shoulder a little, but Mickey gave him no attention, not a speck. It was all on Ian and his fluid movements. It seemed that the entire team had their eyes on him for they were all hushing praises and swears as the redhead threw his body around, twirling his way along the floor until he got to the end of the strip of fabric on the floor. Mickey tore his eyes away for a split second to see a spring board and a crash mat at the other end of it and raised his eyebrows as Ian stopped, turned his back to it and bent over to touch the floor, curling under to grab his fucking ankles, _Jesus Christ_ , Mickey was starting to heat up quick. The pale expanse of his belly, his abs tight and stretched, and his thighs impossibly taut, his arms bulging, was doing things to Mickey's adrenaline glans because his heart was beating ridiculously fast, his hands were sweating and he felt a touch dizzy. Ian kicked his legs over his head and straightened up, twirled, jumped into splits and then tore off at a run – being tall made for a quick runner but, hell, he was _fast_ and his _legs_. Mickey was starting to seriously wish he was alone. He knew a lot of the skaters did gymnastics, ballet for posture and fluid limb movement, but he had no idea Ian could do any of it, but thinking on it, and now witnessing the ginger lunatic throw himself into a front twist to hit the springboard and flip over backwards, yeah, perhaps he should have known. The splits should have tipped him off really, Jesus.

“Holy shit,” Jake breathed from his right once Ian had cleared the mat and carried on dancing, ignoring Jason and Max trying to use each other as balance support, “That's some crazy skill he's got. Wish I could do that.”

“Should be on the gymnastics team, shit,” Bart agreed, shaking his head with disbelief. Mickey grunted to show he was listening but his mouth was drying out and he couldn't think past much more than _I need to touch him_. _He's beautiful_. _Kisses, I want his mouth_. _Oh fucking hell, Ian, stop bending_. He was just getting into _really_ appreciating Ian's back – he needed to claw at that - as he did the splits on the floor and bent over each leg to touch his toes for short bursts, when a body blocked his line of sight.

“Milkovich, right?” Max. Mickey cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, looking up at the cheesy smile on the skater's flushed face. Did every skater possess a stealth setting or something? How did he manage to get across the hall without Mickey even seeing him? But then, Mickey only had eyes for one skater and now he couldn't see him.

He gave a curt nod, “Aaron.”

“Max, please,” he tittered, winking. Mickey could see the majority of his team taking it in turns to glance from Ian and Jason dancing, to Max and his flirty attitude towards a very confused Mickey, eyeing them and nudging each other.

“A'ight. Can I help you?” Mickey really wasn't in the mood for this guy, knowing Ian was real into him, he could totally understand why he'd tensed right up when MaxiPad had interrupted them. That he was flirting too? Well, if it were the other way around, yeah, Mickey would've tensed right up, his fist probably, or his foot maybe, for kicking his ass. He was trying to like the guy, but it was hard when he was just so cloying.

“Well, I was sent to talk to the Captain so-”

“Not me,” Mickey cut in with a wave of his hand, which he grabbed Bart's knee with, “This guy. Talk to him.”

“Oh,” Max looked a little deflated and Mickey preened as the brunet turned to Bart, “Well I was-”

“Back over there, Maximilian, Jesus. I sent you ages ago! Send a boy to do a man's job, seriously...go!” Thompson barked, earning an eye roll as Max sauntered off, flashing Mickey a _filthy_ smile over his shoulder as he went. Now he was out of his sight, Mickey could see Ian again and the skater was no longer moving but sitting on the floor, staring at Max like he was itching to punch him. His fists were clenching and opening in his lap and his jaw set, chin out and eyes narrowed on his team mate. Then he shifted them to Mickey and his face relaxed into a shy smile, passing it off as if he were looking around to calm his temper. Thank God.

“... so we can't play any games in here?” Bart was saying as Mickey tore his eyes away from Ian spreading his legs and rolling back into a shoulder-stand.

“What?” Mickey asked and got a frown for it off Thompson.

“Jesus. Pay attention boy. Svetlana will not lease us this space, even for ten minutes, her boys have been moved around all morning and she's angry enough as it is. We can share, but no contact sports or games, just basic warm-up until I get a call to say we got a rink free. Try not to get anywhere near the skaters,” their Coach wagged his finger at them all, “Lana is putting up a divider, stay this side of it, OK? If you want an ass kickin', I'll gladly let her do it. Leave your shit here with me. Reps, left to right, go, go, go!”

“Fuckin' reps again?” Mickey hissed as he tore off his jacket and stood up, pulling his arms back and forth to stretch a little before speed walking over to the left side of the hall and beginning his back-and-forth jog. They had to dodge around the benches Thompson hauled out, barking at them to jump over them while running at another player to dodge mid-air. It worked for a while, for Mickey anyway, twisting to avoid colliding with whichever fool came at him with a worried look on their face – Milkovich in mode was not a person any of his team liked going up against. He was going good until the divide was constructed, half-and-half, and loud music erupted, making him stumble and catch his toe on a bench. He was lucky he was running at Greg because the guy caught him before he smashed into the floor, righted him and moved off without a word.

Jason was throwing himself around behind the canvas wall, Ian's flame hair just visible above the top of it from where he sat on the floor. The skater was leaping, twisting and doing his jumps around the space he had perfectly and Mickey wanted to stop and watch, as did a lot of his team for they slowed right down – _Jesus, haul it!_ \- because Jason was _good_. The guy carried on until he was too tired to jump up very high and then, much to Mickey's horror and delight combined, Ian stood up and moved into position. This was something Mickey didn't want because he just knew the distraction was going to have him suffering; either from his team mates ribbing him, from not concentrating and getting his ass chewed or he was going to stumble even worse. Ian's dance was poetic in movement – he was dancing to Coldplay for god sake, Adventure of a Lifetime, if Mickey remembered right – and he threw his body up in the air like it was nothing, the height he managed to pull out of his legs was obscene and he looked like he was kick boxing his way around more than anything with the way he was throwing his feet up. He kept his back so perfectly straight as he spun and kicked above his head that it was hard for Mickey to keep his feet, the same for most of his team, wondering how on earth he'd managed to catch this guy's interest. As Ian stood and held his foot by his head, Mickey wanted to rip his clothes off and hit the slow-mo button and he barely dodged Louie sniggering at him as he jogged past because of his wandering mind. Ian twirled and Mickey had to leap a bench; he barely managed it, hitting the wall to turn back and see Ian throw himself forcefully into a Lutz or something, he couldn't tell without seeing him on a rink but whatever he was doing had Mickey staring and, fuck, he was stunning. As Ian threw his leg up and bent backwards, arms out and head back like he was in ecstasy, hair flying, Mickey felt a burning agony engulf his head – _oh fuck...Mick! Mickey? Shit! Medic!_ \- and blacked out on his way to the floor.

 

Ian Gallagher was going to be the death of Mickey Milkovich, he knew it, it would be on his headstone for all to see forever. He could see it: _Here lies Mikhaylo Milkovich (Mowce) Beloved and cherished son, slayed by the fiery vision in blue._ Or something equally as heart-wrenching.

“Mickey?” Coach Thompson's voice broke through his idiotic thoughts and had Mickey grumbling, opening his eyes to find a million pairs of knees in front of him. He was lay on his side with his team crowding him with his head in someone's meaty lap. “You in there boy?”

“The fuck?” he groaned, moving to sit up with the help of whoever was at his back and had been holding his neck.

Thompson huffed a laugh, clearly relieved, “You're distracted ass got right in the way and Oliver tried to leap out of the way like a fuckin' idiot, thinking he was some kind of kangaroo or some shit. He caught you with his knee. You're lucky these guys react fast boy, you swallowed your fuckin' tongue, Jesus!”

“Yeah man, we got you rolled over quick and prince prance-alot was pulling it back out before any of us could blink. You got a thank you to deliver kid,” Greg's voice floated from behind, his face appearing a second later with a smile on it, a watery one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Who?” Mickey's head hurt. Jesus, this Olympic shit was going to kill him first, Gallagher second. How much could a body take before it broke?

“Me, Mickey,” Ian's voice wafted to him as the knees all shuffled and rose, a new pair in shimmery tracksuit bottoms appearing at Mickey's sprawled feet. “Trained first-aider but, I got a lot of kid siblings so I've had... doesn't matter. You OK? Scared the ever living fuck out of me, Christ I nearly took my legs off leaping that thing over there. Doesn't matter. Fuck it all - you're OK, that's all I care about. _Jesus_ Mickey,” Ian looked stressed the hell out; his hands were shaking where they hovered above Mickey's shins, like he wanted to grab him, and his eyes were blown wide and his pallor more white than cream. Yeah, so he saved Mickey's life, but still, he was going to be his death.

“Hey, I'm OK, you can see that,” Mickey said, throwing all fucks out of the window in the face of a frightened Ian Gallagher, and shuffled forward on his bum until his knees were bent and he could reach out and grasp those shaking hands. “Thanks to you, I'm OK. Was a simple accident, no harm done. Bit of a headache, but I'm fine.”

“But you could've-”

“ _And_ I didn't, because of you,” Mickey pushed, squeezing Ian's hands and catching his fidgety eyes. The second they held, Ian breathed out a long and shaky breath. “Thanks man, you got fire in those feet.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “Your lot were freakin' the fuck out, shouting and cursing and scrabbling around you so much I had to ram two of them out of the damn way. They got you on your side though, which was good, and I think Greg had your neck. Chubby fingers don't do so well at getting a tongue out so, good job I got these, huh?” Ian flashed up an eyebrow as he wiggled his fingers in Mickey's grasp.

Mickey snorted, “Yeah. Magic fingers.”

He regretted his light tease as Ian shifted forward and breathed out, “You would know, _Moo_ ,” against his cheek. Oh shit. His stupid nickname should not sound like sex, but then again, anything Ian said that lowly, that heated and on a light moan sounded like sin.

“Jesus, that's not fair man-”

The main door banging open halted his frustrated whine and he jumped with Ian, turning to see most of his team looking everywhere but at Mickey holding Ian's hands and Louie breathing heavily in the doorway. “Oh thank fucking _God_! I was freakin' terrified you were gonna... but you're... anyway, these guys were impossible to find and even harder to get moving with all their shit,” he thumbed behind him as he strut over to Mickey and soon enough, two medics hurried in with bags hanging off them, heading straight for Mickey.

“Carrot boy! Now he is breathing, you come to me,” a sharp voice called out and Ian looked over to where he had been before, nodding.

“I have to go back to Lana 'cause, accident and rescue or not, I'm still training. See you later? Please?” Ian asked sweetly, moving to stand up as a medic knelt down, fishing for a light in his pocket. Ian let go of Mickey's fingers at the last moment possible as he moved away.

“Yeah, 'course, don't gotta beg man,” Mickey chuckled, squinting as a torch shone in his eye, “Jesus. Ah, _easy_ man! Thank you, again,” Mickey said as loud as he could for Ian with a paramedic in his face, eyeing him all over while the doctor or in house medic eyed the rest of him, particularly the back of his head and neck.

“OK, Mr Milkovich, keep still for me and tell me if anything hurts or feels out of sorts,” the guy at his back said, pressing along his neck and under his jaw with latex fingers. “He look well to you Mitch?”

The dark haired medic took his torch away and gently prodded where Mickey's jaw smarted, “Yeah, just dazed Ned, but then a knee in the face will do that to a guy. Water, rest and something light to eat and go from there. I ask that you stay in the vicinity for the next few hours, though I'm sure that's not going to be a problem, is it?” Mitch wondered as Thompson came to stand close by. This man had a nice voice, at least he had that going for him, deep and British. Mickey liked that, found his scowl lessening the more he listened. His coach waved his hands and shook his head. The man stood and shook Thompson's hand, “All right. No vigorous movements. _Any_ pain and/or numbness or alien feeling in the legs, back, neck, head and/or face, loss of vision and/or speech, you find a medic immediately. If you cannot do that, you lay down as still as you can and send for help. Do _not_ leave him alone for at least the next hour or two, do you understand?”

“Yeah, loud and clear,” Thompson smiled and shook Ned's hand as he stood.

“You got some quick thinkers here. He's probably suffered worse with a helmet on,” Ned joked and Thompson laughed, but it was forced and his face impassive. Mickey smirked. Fuck Planet Joy. “Ian?” Ned shouted and Mickey's back flashed hot and cold. First name basis – what was this guy's issue? Or was he just a smart-ass?

“Can you stand up on your own, kid?” Thompson asked but Mickey wasn't paying him attention, he was watching Ned walking over to the dividing wall to speak to Ian. Before Mickey could even plot ways in which to watch Ned weep at his feet, Ian's coach - Svetlana? Sorilena? _Sara? -_ Barged in and turned Ian around, pushing him back to where he had been before levelling Ned with an icy stare. She spat something at him that had the medic's eyebrows shooting up his forehead and his knees wobbling a little. Mickey decided he liked her just because of that, if nothing else. “Mick?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah, just gimme a minute.”

 

Practise consisted of Mickey mostly sitting it out on the bench, munching power-bars and granola snacks, gutsing water and gatorade like no tomorrow until Thompson was leaning over the wall to clip Louie for something, and, seeing his chance, Mickey yanked off his guards and shot out of the gate before his coach even noticed he'd moved. He'd been put out for the best part of the session and he was not going to sit and watch it out until they finished. Not today.

“You little shit! If you have a goddamn accident and die, I'll kill you!”

Mickey saluted him as he stuffed his gum-shield in, balancing his stick on his shoulders with one arm, “Boss!”

Half an hour later and Mickey was really feeling the effects of not having had a smoke since yesterday afternoon, so he waved him arms and called time out. The guys needed a break, he knew that, he wasn't being selfish if they got a snack and some water too. “Yeah, yeah sweet Mick, I'm fuckin' starvin'. Time out!” Bart cheered, ushering the guys off the ice before Thompson could say no. The guy shook his head and threw up his hands, walking into the changing room with a shout that he was going to go find someone from the canteen and get something sent down.

“So, your saviour earlier,” Jake began as he glided along next to Mickey, for once breathing fine and not like he'd been running for a month – not like that really done much, they had a few days left to kick it up before a match and with so much damn noise coming from the central rink, they found it hard to concentrate.

“What about him?” Mickey pushed quietly, watching his stick dance over the bumps and lines in the ice.

“You thanked him, right?” Jake asked, and Mickey nodded. Yeah, but he was going to, hopefully, thank him a bit better later on. The notion sent a throb down his abdomen, straight for his dick. _Jesus_. Just on thought alone. “You make a habit out of holding dudes hands? OK, yeah, he looked shaken up, but, have to wonder why that is...”

Jake's teasing lilt and smile had Mickey groaning into his hands, “Fuckin' say it, you know you wanna and I'm just- shit, say it Jake!”

“Shh. I'm just, dunno, winding you up Mickey. Nice to see who's been responsible for your stupid fuckin' smiles lately, but uh, I noticed that other skater, the one who flirted like a skank? Yeah, he was giving you the stink eye when you did that so maybe keep your little PDA's more 'little'? I know he was frightened and yeah, I'd have hugged the fucker after what he did, but... dunno what I'm saying really. I just don't want you getting hurt I guess? Or Boy Wonder.”

Mickey gave a nod and cuffed Jake around the neck, head-butting him lightly to clack their helmets, “You tell the others the same, a'ight? I know you all fuckin' know something's up, jeez, couldn't be more obvious without coming right into my face and saying 'Oh, hey Mickey, we've been discussing which one of you takes it up the ass'. Fuck, I hear the whispers, I see the looks, dorks... is what it is, right? I like him, he likes me, keep it between us and leave him the fuck alone, alright? Teasing me is one thing.”

“Don't gotta worry about none of us bothering him unless it's to protect his ass from some other ugly motherfucker!” Seth said as they got off the ice, having been listening in like the nosey shit he was. Damn Redwings. “He barrelled Shaun over with one hit to get him outta the way man, was great! Hah! But yeah man, he saved your ass, so he's kinda got himself twenty plus bodyguards for life just because of that, and him being involved with you somehow? Bit more strength in the guard, like, I dunno, an upgrade,” Seth bumped Mickey with his helmet and winked as he shoved through the slow moe's in front of him, yelling out _move bitch, get out the way, get out the way bitch, move out the way!_

As soon as he had his hands in his locker, Mickey opened his phone to find a missed call from Mandy and a text from Ian. Looking around at the men eyeing him with small smiles and cheeky winks, Mickey pocketed it and unloaded his padding before fleeing to the bathroom like a secretive child. Once he was inside, he hit the stall and locked it. He'd sent it only a few minutes before too, bonus.

_2:53pm From: TT_

_So, I'm done. About to leave, all alone. Jason took Max 'cause I nearly punched him out. Nothing serious, but if he mentions how round your ass is one more time... You doing OK?? - Ian x_

Mickey snorted and coughed, listening for anyone else who might have snuck in while he was hearing Ian's voice in his head.

_2:59pm To: TT_

_You don't gotta worry about him getting near my ass. It's not for his grubby fingers. I'm OK. We're taking a break. You still around? - Mick x_

While waiting for the seconds to tick by and for Ian to answer, Mickey chewed at his lip and nearly flew from his skin when his phone started to vibrate in his hand. **TT Calling**.

“Hello?”

“ _I'm in the shelter, nearly done though. What you up to_?”

Mickey huffed and fought his smile, “hiding from my team in the bathroom.”

“ _Hah! Picking on you, are they_?” Ian said with a little distraction in his voice. Probably stubbing out his smoke. Mickey had a craving all of sudden.

“Stay there. I'll be two minutes. Don't... just stay there,” Mickey rushed, unlocking the stall and marching from it as Ian laughed an agreeing murmur and hung up. He tore through the changing room and rummaged in his bag for his cigarettes and lighter, waving them with a petulant grin at any eyes on him and left as quick as he could before Thompson spotted him and forced a cardboard sandwich down his neck again. To say he jogged most of the way would be a lie – he ran. By the time he'd gotten around the back of the arena and dodged any guests, fans or staff, Mickey was extremely eager to find the skater and fix his craving.

He shot into the shelter to find Ian leaning against the back panel, smiling a slow, sultry spread of his mouth, tonguing his bottom lip and watching Mickey with heavy eyes. Mickey thanked his stars that _his_ shelter was out of the way because he couldn't stop his feet and rather quickly he found himself in Ian's space, pushing his way between those long legs, slotting his pelvis in the groove of Ian's quite nicely, hand on his nape, nuzzling his face into his neck as Ian's fisted between his shoulders.

“Scare me like that again and I'll cut your fucking tongue out, got it?” Ian mumbled into his shoulder.

“Uh huh,” Mickey nosed at his warm skin and kissed it, couldn't stop himself, made himself do it again and felt Ian's breath catch as his hands shifted down his back. In a blur, Mickey found himself tipped back a little with a plump bottom lip between his and his eyes began falling closed in contentment. Ian's sighed and opened right up, licking against Mickey's tongue as it snaked in, holding him fast and possessive with his big hands on the dip of Mickey's lower back. Kissing Ian was damn addictive, Mickey knew that, and he was making sure he got a fix to last him until later. He sucked in air through his nose and the sound double Ian's hot effort, his mouth sliding with Mickey's slow and wet and hard as he moved a hand up to fist at Mickey's crown, using it to tilt Mickey and devour his moan, suck his tongue and bodily force him to move until Ian had him flush against the frosted glass.

“Oh my – _shit_!” Mickey fought to keep his whine down but Ian would have gotten it out of him with what he was doing; he was lifting Mickey with a strong grip on his ass, pushing him up the glass with the strength in his thighs and arms, but more so with the pressure he applied with his groin, rolling his hips to nudge him up and up while keeping their mouths glued together. Being manhandled set Mickey blazing but hell, he was _whimpering_ over it as he got a hold around Ian's neck and locked his thighs over those sharp hipbones, crossing his ankles while Ian held him up, kneading his ass enthusiastically and groaning as Mickey rubbed his tongue against his.

Mickey, much as he didn't want to, he really didn't, tore his mouth away but Ian didn't seem to mind, smiled even, kissing his cheek lightly instead and it was mind fuckery at its finest because steam roller to soft as feather? He needed to breathe. Jesus.

Speaking as if he was discussing the temperature, though his voice was dangerous and deep, Ian said, plainly, “I want you,” and Mickey cursed. “Real bad, hmm,” Mickey, much as he adored this guy's voice, wanted to slap his hand over the redhead's bowed lips to stifle the syrup coming out of them. He was starting to _tremble_ for God sake.

“We gotta go somewhere a little more private.”

“Oh yeah? How long you got, Mick?” Ian breathed, nosing at his jaw while he kept his dopey eyes on Mickey's, intent clear as crystal. He rolled his hips and grinned, a pleased sound bubbling in the back of his throat as Mickey hissed at the friction. Jesus he was hard and Ian felt like steel, nearing on painful, against his navel.

“Ah-ha, about fif-fifteen?”

Ian hummed and straightened up so he could hold Mickey's eyes for a moment, sucking in his bottom lip and rolling his tongue over it, “I could have you coming in my mouth in half that.”

Mickey huffed through his nose and had to drop his chin so groan into his collar, much to Ian's amusement, laughing quietly as he was, his lips pulled nice and wide and bright, blood red. And they could be - “Oh, fucking _Jesus_ , let me down right now, _right now_!”

For once in his life, Mickey was happy he had the 'big balls' walk as it was helping hide his erection and if he exaggerated it by flicking his knees out a little more, then fuck anyone who questioned it. Ian kept his face passive, following at Mickey's side with his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket to pull it down over his crotch.

“In here,” Mickey tipped his head at the hockey arena and took Ian down the hall that lead to his changing room right in the back where the training rinks were. He knew for a fact that the other rink was shut for polishing and that the rooms down there should rightfully be deserted, so he forked to the left and moved quick in order not to be seen. They were in the clear and the rooms were empty, and he barely refrained from crying with relief as he pushed the door open to the bathroom in the corridor. He didn't dare risk going into the changing rooms just in case they got locked in. This one was smaller, two stalls and lock on the main door for private use, something Ian saw to as soon as he checked the coast was silent and pushed the door shut.

Mickey felt a little nervous as Ian advanced on him, his face purely predatory as he gave Mickey a slow once over and sucked in his top lip, teething at it and letting out go with a moan. He gave Mickey a slow smile and pointed at his tracksuit bottoms, “Get those down.”

“You-” Mickey's mouth belonged to Ian, clearly, as he caught it and picked up the heated kissing from where they'd left it, helping Mickey's shaky hands push and tug his bottoms down, thumbing his boxer briefs along as he released Mickey's lips and following to his knees. Ian pushed his jacket out of the way once Mickey had hastily unzipped the tricky fucker, pushing it off while Ian slid his hot hand up his belly under his jersey and tank, pushing them away to get at the flat sections of his abdomen and along his ribs, his hips, licking fat stripes and sucking kisses into his skin with small sighs and heavy groans. The entire time, Mickey was panting and fisting the material of his jersey to keep it out of the way, closing his eyes tight as Ian bit his navel and nuzzled his treasure trail, nosing the light line of black hair with pleasure, his hands ghosting up and down Mickey's thighs. The fact that his cock was throbbing and wet and pressed up against the underside of Ian's chin was not missed by Mickey; the light scratch of barely-there stubble and the vibration of every single noise Ian made was absorbed by the rosy head of his dick and it was driving Mickey's desperation levels through the roof.

“You can hold my hair, I don't mind,” Ian muttered as he mouthed down the crease of Mickey's groin, pushing the material of his underwear down to his ankles with his bottoms, those hot hands and long fingers scratching back up his legs until they were cupping his ass and tugging him forward.

Mickey's jersey dropped and his head cracked off the towel rack as Ian licked his cock to get it as wet as he could, groaning the whole time, and once satisfied, swallowed it down without warning, without preamble and with a shocking vibration of a moan that had Mickey grunting out a low, long noise and his hands tight in strands of fire. “ _Ho_ ly fuck, ah, _hah_ Ian, Juh-”

Ian's hands tugged Mickey's hips forward as he bobbed towards them, his eyes fluttering and his throat hot and wet, his tongue thick and on a mission and Mickey was _gone_. He was incoherent, he couldn't speak now if he had a gun against his forehead and pike ready to go up his ass. Ian let off for a second, moving one hand to Mickey's side and the other to his own lap, tugging his cock out and spreading his knees.

“Mickey. _Mickey_ ,” he moaned and Mickey looked down and his whole body twitched dangerously; Ian's eyes were shiny, whacked out and begging him for something, his mouth was wet and puffy and his chin gleaming with a mix of spit and pre-cum and his hair was still snarled around Mickey's fingers. Ian's hand was blurring and his body shaking with the speed he was tugging himself off at, dragging his teeth and hitching his breath against Mickey's thigh. “ _Mickey_.”

“Wha?” Mickey breathed and Ian shuffled, simply looked up at him like he was the master of all, opening his mouth and waiting, digging his fingers into Mickey's waistline weakly, like he was so out of it he couldn't think properly. “You want me to fuck your pretty mouth, eh?”

Ian moaned and bit at his groin lazily, eyes drooping but still locked on Mickey's. “Yeah,” he managed to breathe out, licking his teeth and screwing his face up for a flash, hiccuping out a moan that Mickey echoed louder, gripping Ian's head carefully to get him upright better.

“You sure?” He asked, hardly able to function himself but he knew not to force anything. Ian nodded and opened wide and Mickey pushed his cock back into his mouth slowly, carding one hand through his hair gently while cradling his jaw with the other. “Gonna try to, uh, behave but, fuck _Ian_ , if it's too much, bite me or some shit 'cause you look fucked right out man. Whacked on me, huh?” Ian moaned his agreement and started fisting his own dick again, rolling his eyes as Mickey began to thrust as carefully as he could while maintaining enough friction to get off quickly. High on the taste of Mickey – his mind sparked a threat to blank out. To keep his cool and not choke Ian with rapid stabs of his cock, he tried to focus on something and it fell on Ian again, but his comfort more than anything. That floor must be hurting his knees and his posture was tight so he had backache coming by the bucket load and Christ his jaw was going to hurt something rotten but the skater was moaning and trying to breathe a tempo that had him staying away from pass-out territory, fucking his own hand and sucking Mickey and looking up at him with those expressive eyes.

Ian pulled off suddenly and clawed at Mickey's jersey, tugging as much as he could to get him down to his level and once Mickey's knees caved, Ian had his face buried in Mickey's neck, his teeth sharp as he dragged them along the tendons there, hitching his rapid panting, “Mi- I'm... _Mickey_.”

“Fuck, go on, come, come for _me_ ,” Mickey breathed, stroking his back as Ian went rigid and moaned low, broken noises into his skin and came hard over Mickey's thigh and hip, and his own hand. The way Ian moaned his damn name had his throat drying out and Mickey screwing his eyes shut to get his orgasm in check for a minute. Why'd he have to say it so damn deep and raw? Oh yeah, he was trying to kill him, wasn't he. Great way to go.

Ian stretched out his fingers and pulled back, kissed Mickey slowly for a moment before shoving him up again, sucking his cock straight back down without blinking, cheeky eyes ablaze. He tapped Mickey's hip and raised his eyebrows, _carry on_ , so Mickey gripped his head again and continued to fuck his mouth now Ian had his hands free to guide him a little. It didn't take long for the wet _slick_ , _slick_ , the greedy noises Ian made, to get to him again and when he looked down and locked his eyes with those big, glistening ones he was falling in love with, shining above his taut, red, wet mouth sucking with such a fucking force - Mickey inhaled rapidly, three in succession before he froze up. He tried to push Ian off, warning him with a desperate look as he held his breath but the fucker moaned like no-ones business and held his hips, mouth tight around the head of Mickey's cock, eyes wide and kind, allowing, and fixed on his.

“Ian, sh-” it hit him in the chest first, pushing the air from his lungs in aggressive grunts, then his stomach tensed up and his hips twitched as he came, his body spasming harshly and making him double over the redhead, holding his head for support as he knees felt like the didn't exist for a few blinding seconds. Ian made pleased little noises as he licked and cleaned Mickey up, moving to sit back on his heels once the exhausted excuse that was left of Mickey moved to brace himself against the sinks. “Fucking hell, man.”

Ian chuckled as he tucked himself away and stood up, moving to fetch paper towels from by the door soaking them before sweetly cleaning Mickey's tense thigh and waist, even lightly around his cock and balls without batting a dusky eyelash, checking him over before tugging his clothes back up and into place like he hadn't just ruined Mickey with his mouth alone. “You want some soothing kisses, Mick?” Ian asked, smiling smugly, though he had every right to be if Mickey was being honest. Nodding while still fighting his breathing and heart back into rhythm, Mickey watched Ian rinse his mouth out under the tap and dry it quickly on the toweling, catching Mickey quickly with his mouth and picking him up to sit on the surface between the two sinks.

“You've got some sorta Herculean shit going on in that stringy body of yours,” Mickey chuckled through the soft kisses Ian dotted along his mouth and cheekbones.

“Do I hear complaints?” he smiled, flashing up a teasing eyebrow as he ducked to kiss the other side of Mickey's face, trailing along his jaw from one ear to the other.

“No, nope. Nah. Just sayin',” Mickey laughed as Ian snorted and landed a slow kiss to his mouth before moving to nuzzle his neck again, arms tight around Mickey's middle. These kisses. These hugs. That mouth. Those eyes. This body against is... Mickey dipped his nose and inhaled the smell of Ian and his clothes, turning to kiss his tight neck. God, he was crushing on Ian Gallagher _so_ bad! He was so far down in the pool of 'gone' that he knew he'd never find the top again and he really, _really_ didn't fucking want to either.

Ian shifted a little and pulled out Mickey's phone from deep in his front pocket, “You've got three minutes until you're gonna get the questioning of your life. Have you seen your face? S'fucking blissed out.”

“If it's half of what yours is, I'm stayin' in here until the Games are done, promise cracker,” Mickey mouthed along Ian's neck and pulled back to catch his swollen, doped smile. What was twenty questions from twenty something men compared to this guy's face, really? Yeah, he could deal.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> need a bucket of ice?? nnehehehehe sorry for hurting Mick but, yeah, he;s very accident prone but now he has magic Ian (Mike) here to fix him and kiss him better, i don't think he'll mind all that many bumps or bruises, d'you? ;) i love my Moo, i take care of him like he deserves.
> 
> thank you for reading! MWAH!!!!


	10. Freaking Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey freaks out and has an episode only one man can pull him out of. So Ian takes Mickey on a not-date and treats him good, even if he does pelt Mickey with snowballs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired, like, it's a wonder i'm not face planting the keyboard right now i swear... right, so it took me forever and it's bigger this time again - probably just gonna keep getting bigger. I'm gonna have a problem aren't i? Giving so much and then shrinking it down is gonna be like, hey, where'd all the words go?! Am i even making sense at all?? 
> 
> Anyway! Warning: panic attack, a lot of swearing but hey, it's shameless, and so much cute and emotional shit you'll need a dentist after this. Sex too. This is a very Ian and Mickey chapter because the competing will really pick up soon and they won't get half as much time together without all the sport in between... Enjoy my loves! I adore you all and praise you for your patience :) Any mistakes are mine, i will go over this tomorrow and correct anything i spot but right now, no. I'm too sleepy!

 

“All I'm sayin' is, if you weren't such a blouse, you'd last maybe ten seconds in a ring with Johnson, s'all I'm sayin'.”

“Oh, and you'd last longer I suppose? An inch difference really doesn't do much when facing The Rock!” Louie snapped and Shaun snorted before winking and leaning down that tiny touch to meet Louie's now nervous eye.

“Use it properly, and it makes all the difference, Louie boy,” Baker teased with a lick of his grin. Louie gave him an unimpressed look and turned to Mickey for help, of none he offered.

Louie gave him fidgety eyebrows, Mickey raised his. Louie gave him a pained expression, Mickey blanked his out and shook his head. “Bang him out for me?” Louie whispered as Shaun veered off to walk with Greg along the walkways leading to their hotel. Louie shot his team mate a scowl when Shaun winked at him again, biting his tongue and laughing. If it wasn't the fact that Louie would combust or throw a tantrum, Mickey would have started laughing, but, as it was – and he'd suffered it the entire journey back – he was in no mood to play babysitter, so he remained as stoic as he could with Louie bitching under his breath.

“No. If you don't like the teasing, don't fucking start it, Jesus, you know this well enough by now. What are you, really Louie... Eleven? Twelve at a push?” Mickey asked, ducking to inspect his friend childishly, tugging at his beanie hat, looking him over and down at his feet, pretending to be shocked by the size difference between his own and Louie's.

“Fuck off, Mick!”

Mickey chuckled as he was shoved playfully away, keeping the distance with a nod. “Fuck me off, man, don't care, whatever,” he said with mock bite, narrowing his eyes to look anywhere but at Louie, chewing his lip and flexing his hand on the strap of his kit bag. To any other, he looked pissed as fuck, but to Louie he looked like a sarcastic dick – he got shoved again and laughed out loud, a real belly aching huff, as Louie skidded on a slippery patch and fought to stay upright. Louie squawked and his legs went haywire under him, his hands flying out to try and grab a hold of Mickey as he dodged out of the way, laughing so much his eyes watered. He hated his own laugh – deep and loud and then high and giggly with a snort every time he tried to stifle it – but someone apparently _loved_ it, for he stood a few feet away grinning like he had found the fountain of youth or some shit, eyes bright and mouth wide open, curling more and more with every noise Mickey released.

“Fuck! Fuckin' _help_ me, for fuck sake, you _fucking_ fuck!” Louie barked and Mickey would have offered a hand, except he was too entranced by Ian's smile at his dorky laugh, the noise quieting until he was left beaming right back without his brain's consent. “ _Goddamn it Mickey_!”

“All right, all right, Christ,” he grouched, breaking the hold Ian had on him to put his arm out and steady Louie before he fell and broke his ass bone or neck.

Once he was away from anything remotely threatening, Louie shoved Mickey off again and bit out, “Ass.”

“Should have left you flailing like a duck, you ungrateful son of a bitch,” Mickey tugged his coat back into place with scowl and snorted at the same time as Louie, grinning at each other as Ian carefully walked over the patch off floor, stepping over the ice with his giant legs. His smile was brilliant and the flush on his cheeks and nose reminded Mickey of their earlier meeting – he had come to notice that Ian's face and neck carried a heavy redness after a good orgasm, a really vivid glow.

“Hey,” Ian smiled, looking between them though his eyes stayed on Mickey mostly.

Louie was grinning like a smug bastard again and Mickey held back the heavy sigh. “Sup bro? Where you headed off to?”

Ian frowned a little and looked down at his uniform, “I'm heading back to my room. Going to get a shower and change into something warmer 'cause I got a date.”

Mickey's stomach dropped through his feet and his heart lodged under his diaphragm as Ian practically shone with glee, winking down at him like some Satanist, “Oh yeah?” He hoped to high heaven his voice wasn't shaking at much as his body was, he prayed it didn't waver at all and that he appeared indifferent even though he was feeling real hurt. It _ached_.

Ian's face contorted a little, like he was thinking something over, and then he smiled a sly, toothy grin, “Uh huh. Really looking forward to spending some time with him, you know? I saw him for five minutes earlier and it just wasn't enough.”

Louie could sense Mickey's turmoil, he could feel it, for his face was shadowed and he swallowed with difficulty as he eyed Ian, “Sounds nice. Is he a good one then?”

Ian sighed dreamily and tipped his head to the side, a soft smile on his face, “Hasn't come across as a bad one yet.” _Yet_. That word bounced around Mickey's heavy head like a ping pong ball, yelling and then whispering conspiratorially, pushing him to clench his jaw and focus on the snow on the wall of the main building.

Louie sniffed and shifted his feet, watching Mickey stiffen completely, “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah, he really is. I like him,” Ian smirked, watching Mickey's face even though he was looking over Ian's shoulder. “He's gorgeous and sweet. Got these eyes you can get lost in and an expressive mouth that I kind of want to kiss all the time. It's becoming real hard to keep my hands off him. _And_ , as I don't know where he stands on PDA, I gotta keep my hands in my pockets at all times, otherwise I'd be touching him constantly,” Ian flicked up an eyebrow and ducked to catch Mickey's eye. He was smiling, that warm curl of his mouth and, when Mickey found himself drawn in, Ian swayed his hips to catch his attention. His hands were buried in his pockets. _Oh_ , oh shit. “You seriously think I'd play you?”

Mickey nearly deflated into nothingness with the exhale he let out, feeling like an idiot and a prick all at once for thinking any but that. Ian was different, he kept forgetting that, and it was getting annoying that his brain wasn't catching onto that as quickly as the rest of him was. “I'm sorry,” Mickey pinched his thigh to keep his feet planted, so desperate to fix that little sting he'd made, but also not wanting to out either of them to the entire resort by kissing the shit out of Ian to pull that smile back out.

Ian pursed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, looking amused if anything, “Pizza?”

“Shit, yeah, fuck I'm sorry-” Ian cut him off with a shake of his head, a reassuring smile on his face. Did he ever not smile?

“Don't apologise for something you have no control over. It's not you, it's your past, and maybe with time, you'll be able to leave it there? Erase it and replace it with something better?” Ian hummed and tongued his lip, his body leaning towards Mickey like he wanted to touch him, calm him, but they were outside and surrounded by every nationality they could think of. “Hey, I'm not upset Mickey, promise, if anything, I'm sorry I teased you. Didn't think it'd go over your head, dork,” Ian said softly, turning to bump his shoulder lightly.

“That short joke, twinkle toes?” Mickey piped, fighting his smile down, but Ian saw through him and could see he wasn't overly bothered by it. The thought of Ian with someone else? Now _that_ bothered him.

Louie chuckled, lugging his bag up on his shoulder and then nodding at Mickey, “To be fair to him, you're fucking beautiful and I'm seriously surprised you haven't taken any fucking notice of the girls and guys fawning over you right now – oh my god, how are you not seeing this?! They're like, dribbling or something, walking past and staring like kids looking at Wonka's secret stash, but you're like, not there? I'm not surprised Mick worried, I fuckin' would! Just look at you. Damn.”

“Shut the fuck up, Louie,” Mickey hushed, eyes never leaving Ian's bright ones and smiling a little as Ian's mouth tugged up. He made to walk past and leant down to breathe into Mickey's ear.

“I'm sorry, I thought you'd catch on quickly. Didn't mean to upset you or anything. So you know, I don't see anyone else when I see you,” he promised, kissing Mickey's neck quickly. “Jesus, you smell like oranges again. Never going to be able to eat one without getting hard.” Fucking hell, it was like he flicked on the ignition switch.

“So, you guys having a pizza night, huh?” Louie's cheerful voice broke through Mickey before he had chance to moan or whimper at Ian's tone, the skater walking away with a small a wave and wink for Mickey only.

“Yeah, if Mick wants it?” Ian wondered, turning to walk backwards a little. Mickey gave a bob of his head, licking his teeth to focus on something other than his groin heating up, “Then yeah, that's settled. I'll come and get you around seven.”

“Come and get- I thought it was pizza?” Mickey wondered, following him because why not? They were going the same way. If a little distance helped public appearances, he could tolerate not being within touching distance so every other asshole kept their noses out of their bubble. He could, just about.

“Yes. Nowhere delivers, not even within resort, Mick, so I gotta take you out,” Ian said, as if he knew that. “See you later.”

Ian gave a wave and turned back to his path, his long legs taking him further away with every stride until he was sucked into the masses and leaving behind Mickey to suffer Louie's bubbling excitement. “Don't you fuckin' start. I mean it, Lou.”

“Wasn't gonna say shit bro, but can I just point out one thing?”

Mickey took a deep breath and let it out with a groan, “Why is my permission going to mean anything? You'd say it even if I plugged my ears and stuck my head in the snow.”

Louie snorted and winked, “You know me too well, it seems. Yo, that teasing was a bit mean but if it weren't for your Elsa sketch, goin' all ice-king on us for a second, I might have worked out his edge sooner. You put me off man, but anyway, with the way he described you, wouldn't stop looking at you even with your cold as shit staring, looking anywhere else but at him, his softie-soft voice and all that? He's a good one, like, a keeper or somethin'. You going to keep him? He looked desperate, like he would've kissed you better or hugged you until you were goo on the floor, you know?”

Mickey managed to keep his smile in check and sucked on his top lip until the feeling settled down enough for him to speak and not look like a love-sick hound, “No, I don't know. You keep sayin' this stuff but I don't see it.”

“Ah, but that's because you're the one he's aiming it at, bro, you can't see it from the outside perspective. Told you I see everything and I ain't lying either. Marry him, OK? If you don't do something to keep him, I'm takin' him-”

“You fucking dare finish that, Fael,” Mickey growled, shoving Louie's laughing bulk through the main hotel doors, staring him down until they were travelling up to their floor.

As they walked by Louie's room, he turned and kissed Mickey's cheek, “I don't think you gotta worry, Moo. He likes you so much it makes me want to puke and scream hallelujah from the snow-flaked rooftop while raining roses down and tearing off my shirt like some nineties music video boyband guy in the rain-”

“Oh my God, _fuck_ , go away man,” Mickey sighed, pushing Louie and his idiot tongue through his open door, reaching to shut the door for him before he could carrying on with is stupid, dorky speech and swooning. He was fucking _swooning_ in his kitchenette – _he likes you so much it makes me want to sob like I did at The Notebook, God fuck you both, I'm so jealous_ – so Mickey high tailed it to his own, enjoying the solitude of his room for a second before panic set in. He was going on a date.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, looking around his room for something to centre his attention on before he either began grinning and jumping around like a child, or crumpling and hiding from Ian for the rest of the night because he was terrified of being in public, with Ian, on a date. It wasn't being with Ian that scared him, but the people out there who might, or would, say something and hurt Ian and ruin everything for them, for him. Or Mickey himself – he was seriously awkward in situations where he felt like his own feet belonged to some other guy and his body was on a astral plain in another dimension. God, he was freaking out about fucking it up by just leaving the security of his room. Though, the last date he'd been on had ended up with him being publicly humiliated, degraded and emotionally wounded in a restaurant and then drawn into a fist fight when he'd gotten home. _Fucking Luke_. He pulled out his phone and shakily unlocked it, set on calling his dad before the panic attack really caught fire and crippled him. The sweats started and his heart pounded painfully and his world zeroed in on the print of the curtains hanging around the window.

“Hey kid!” just hearing his deep voice calmed Mickey down enough to stop his vision blurring, the claustrophobic sensation dissipating in a snap.

“Hi dad.”

“What gives? You know, we agreed on Skype to avoid the charges to your account and it's like, three or four in the morn-”

“Panic attack,” Mickey exhaled and slid down the door to the floor.

“ _Shit_. OK, I'm right here son, right here,” his dad's jovial tone settled quickly into a deep, calm, steady breathing. “Follow me, and you will see, a world of pure imagination.”

“Not this,” Mickey closed his eyes and focused on following the deep breathing of his dad through his singing, holding it for seven seconds and letting it out very slowly until his heart rate steadied and his hands stopped sweating.

Dean laughed and kept at his breathing, making his sentence sound like he had run miles, “Yeah, so it's an awful choice of song, but it works for you, it always has. Now, do you want to talk about why you freaked out or would you rather we just talked about something else?”

Mickey stretched his legs out and breathed through his nose, “I'm going on a date.”

Dean hummed and shifted the phone, the rustling, crackling soothing Mickey a little more, “I understand why that would frighten you.”

“He's nothing like Luke, dad,” Mickey moaned, feeling pissed off at himself for even allowing that memory to taint what he had going with Ian. “Why won't it stop and fuck off already?”

“Because, son, these things take time. That he's nothing like that son of a bitch is a great and wonderful thing in and of itself, so focus on that. With time, it'll become easier. I have to know though, because it's been over a year Mick, what triggered this? It's not just the thought of going on a date, you're stronger than that.”

“It's not the date, no. And it's not Ian either, because _Jesus_ he's amazing,” Mickey rubbed down his face and sighed out a heavy gust of breath, “I don't know, maybe I'm worried I'll fuck it up and he'll kick me to the floor, or maybe I'm frightened somebody is going to call us on it and humiliate the both of us and I don't want that for him, not because of me. Or, maybe it's because Luke's here and just his presence has unsettled me more than I thought it would.”

Dean was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment and Mickey chewed his lip and rubbed his thumb against his index finger in a way that kept his attention. “Luke's there?”

“Hear anything else I said?” Mickey chuckled and Dean sniffed.

“I did, I get those fears, but you're a great guy Mickey, I don't know how many times I've told you that over the years. Fuck anybody else’s views when it comes to you being happy, OK? This Ian sounds great, just from him being the total opposite to fuck-face. So, you're going on a date, so what? I'm sure he's just as carefully guarded as you are and doesn't go around holding your hand or something as showy so you can be safe with that knowledge, right?”

Mickey smiled, “Yeah, he's pretty cool with that. Doesn't push me or anything.”

Dean laughed, “There you go, son! Stop worrying, I know it's hard for you to do that and easy for me to say, but as long as you're comfortable, fuck the rest of the world. If it seems too romantic or something, view it as two guys hanging out, a bro-date like you do with Louie, a platonic thing until you're safe behind a door. Just, focus on Ian, ignore everything else. Rich and I still do that, you know? You deserve it, kid, so please don't worry you'll fuck it up because you won't.”

Mickey felt his heart catch and he coughed the lump from his throat, “I love you, dad.”

“I know, Mick. I love you,” Dean said softly, “So, Luke's there?”

“Uh, yeah. Flew in to support Canada.”

Dean coughed and shifted a little, “He approach you yet?”

“Yeah, but the guys kind of put the fear of God into him. Ian put himself between us and stared him down, nothing heroic or over the top, just a warning him away 'cause he could see how fuckin' uncomfortable I was.”

“I need to meet this Ian, seriously, he sounds pretty good Mickey. If he could see that, did something to help, you've nothing to worry about with the public shit. Sounds like he'd kick someone's teeth in before you had chance, you know?” Dean laughed and Mickey found himself nodding. God, he missed his dads so much. “I wish we could have Skyped, it wouldn't be costing you, but it's late here and this was more than I could have asked for. I miss your voice, Mickey, but I miss your face more.”

“Sorry dad, forget the time difference,” Mickey mumbled – fourteen hours, give or take a few minutes. That's why he kept missing the Skype calls.

“No worries, son. I'd love to keep talking but Richard is begging to find out what's going on and I have an early shift so I've got to find some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow, don't give a shit about cost – it's nothing Richard, stop worrying, I got this – Jesus, he's unbearable. I'll call you around eight in the evening here, so it'll morning be for you?”

“Yeah, about ten or something. I get up earlier than that so, yeah, don't worry.”

Dean cursed and the phone was scratchy for a second, “He tried to tackle me. He forgets I play football on the weekends – Dickie, _get off_! Mick, I'll talk to you soon son, we love you.”

“Nerds. I love you too guys,” Mickey snorted. He said goodbye and hung up, smiling on the floor for a moment, feeling far better than he had for a while. He felt lighter just from hearing his dad. Thank fuck for delinquent alcoholics calling CPS.

He got up off the floor and made for his closet – he hadn't unpacked more than he needed too, but suits were arranged for him and pressed and hung - so he borrowed the charcoal shirt from one of them and forewent a tie as he still hadn't gotten the first one back yet. He dug out his brown boots, eyed the grip on them and considered them versus the snow. They looked a lot like Ian's, only darker and not as massive; Mickey pulled out some clean jeans and lay them on the bed and smiled as he went to take a shower, even going as far as singing in it as he washed thoroughly with orange scented shower cream, shaking his head at the name on the bottle – happy time. Sure would be if Ian got anywhere near his skin. He'd showered before leaving the arena but he wanted to make sure he was squeaky for Ian, cleaning everything twice. The shampoo stung his eyes and he swore, smelling like a fruit basket as he dried off and glanced in the mirror, a dirty smile working onto his face at the fading marks on his pale skin. His face was healing up, slowly, but still, he didn't look so rough any more and his ribs barely bruised past a shadow these days, but the mouth shaped ovals and prints of teeth stood out no matter how new or old they were.

Mickey dressed slowly, humming a variety of tunes to himself as he selected a pair of black boxers briefs and tugged them on, then some green socks and the rest of his outfit. He knew he had a while before that inevitable knock would come at his door, so he fussed over perfecting the quiff of his hair, fluffing it and setting it with putty for so long that his fingers began to stiffen. As he washed it off, he looked in the mirror and frowned; he decided to change the shirt for a white t-shirt and wear a his black jacket instead. Yeah it wasn't showy but then he didn't want to appear like he was over thinking this. It was pizza. He went back to the mirror and grinned – he looked good like this, he knew he did, bad boy but not so much that he gave off the air of taking knees out, just the image of roughing you up. The jacket wasn't heavy, but with his scarf and gloves he'd be able to fend off the cold enough, or if not, he could scavenge a hug or two in hidden corners and he was confident that Ian wouldn't mind. The door knocked and his heart jumped into his lung.

He wiped his hands on his dark jeans and glanced to make sure the dye didn't transfer. Of course it wouldn't, they were too worn in for that, but still, he was nervous and it was just pizza. “Hey,” he breathed as he opened the door to Ian's brilliant smile. Thank fuck – he wasn't wearing a shirt, just a nice t-shirt and jeans. Great minds and thinking alike and all that. But Christ if he wasn't stunning to look at; long hair swept back, soft and peachy faced with fitted clothes and bright eyes. Whenever he clocked sight of the redhead, Mickey's breath caught, but whenever it was like this, when they'd be alone together, it was something forceful and entirely different.

“Hey yourself. Please, don't look at me like that while I'm standing in the hallway, Mick, Jesus,” Ian smiled dangerously, his voice low, and Mickey stopped gawking to let him walk past, catching a strong haze of whatever scent he was wearing and Mickey's mouth watered, his legs went hot and his stomach rolled as his groin flared up. Just pizza. He shut the door and swallowed, shaking his head to clear it a bit as Ian took his khaki coloured jacket off and tucked it into a ball to place on a stool. Those dark jeans were nice and snug on those long legs and hugged Ian's ass like something sinful. “I'm a touch early but... Mickey?” Ian's voice was vague compared to the sound of Mickey's blood rushing through him – that minty v-neck was _tight_. Holy shit.

“Huh, yes, _yeah_?” Mickey snapped his eyes up as Ian turned and feigned total calmness like he wasn't just losing it to the sight of this guy alone. Ian squinted and moved towards Mickey slowly, calculated steps that had Mickey backing up against the fridge.

“You look amazing, you smell intoxicating and I'm expected to take you out and not act like it's killing me to keep my hands off of you,” Ian's voice was so low Mickey swallowed and blinked through the lust haze that settled over him, sucking in air as Ian stood close enough to feel his body heat, smell the sweet scent of whatever he was wearing and the smell of his warm skin underneath it, twisting the fragrance into something that drew him in like a bee to a flower. Mickey was hooked on his pheromones.

“I'm just wearing a tee and jeans man,” Mickey said quietly, barely getting the words out as he watched Ian watching him, looking over his face and down his neck and arm like he was a painting.

“You look _amazing_. You _are_ amazing.”

Going for boldness, Mickey moved a little and hooked his finger in Ian's belt loop. “If that's so,” he began slowly, watching Ian's mouth part a little at the drop in his voice, “Phenomenal springs to mind when I look at you.”

“My God,” Ian growled, catching Mickey's mouth quickly, pressing his entire body flush against Mickey's until he was on his toes and pasted to the fridge, a heavy hand on his waist and another at his nape holding him fast. Mickey whimpered as Ian inhaled sharp through his nose, titling his head to deepen their kiss, opening up and questioning Mickey's lips with a lick as Mickey tried fought not to fist his hands in Ian's neat hair-do, settling one on his neck and opting to fist the other in the fabric on Ian's shoulder. “Christ, how the fuck do I manage to keep from doing this every second you're near me, hm?” Ian breathed as he pulled back to tilt the other way, devouring the moan that bubbled up Mickey's throat.

Ian's hand moved from his waist, sliding up his ribs to cup around his chest, pulling Mickey away from the fridge to move him along until he had his back against the counter. Without thinking on it, Mickey broke the kiss for a flash to hop up and wiggled until he perched on the worktop enough that when Ian slotted between his open legs, their groins were pressed together and Ian was locked in place by Mickey's snaking legs around the back of his thighs, Ian's body keeping him from falling off. He seemed to like having Mickey up on things, level with him and within easy reach for his questing hands to grope and mold to his body while he kissed Mickey breathless, tonguing his lips and licking against his tongue with soft hums and groans.

He tore his mouth away and was panting harshly as he gazed at Mickey from under heavy eyelashes, “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

Mickey gave a shy smile, knowing his face was flushed and his expression stupefied, “I kind of do 'cause, you know, in the same boat here, Ian.”

“Fuck, your voice is bad enough as it is normally, but now?” Ian whined, leaning in to kiss along Mickey's cheek to his ear and under it. “All gravelly and deep and I know how much further is goes when you're switch on. It's burning my blood knowing I'm the reason for it, Mickey. I can't explain how much I want you, and not just to bury myself in your body and create all of those fuckin' insane noises you make, make you come apart, _God_. I want your time, your smiles, you hugs and kisses and fuck, even your fluctuating moods. Stop me if it's too much to hear, I know it's a lot, but goddamn it Moo, I can't help it.”

Mickey closed his eyes and tried not to shake with his words, but it was a hard thing to fight, “ _Ian_.”

“ _Shit_ , you can't say my name like that,” Ian breathed hotly, sucking lightly on his neck and laving the spot with his tongue. Mickey was almost tempted to call him on the name thing but decided he would keep it shut in case he never heard Ian say his own the same way again. Ian was ruining him, inside out and upside fucking down.

“You gonna take me on this pizza run then?” Mickey asked softly, smirking when Ian whined again and pulled back reluctantly, sucking Mickey's bottom lip as he went. He _was_ hungry.

“Yeah, better feed you up before I ruin you,” Ian said slowly, licking his teeth.

“Fuck sake, and you warn me about sayin' shit?” Mickey had to grit his teeth and close his eyes for a second; Ian was staring at him with open hunger written all over his face, his pupils widening the longer he gazed and his mouth was puffy, something Mickey loved seeing but good grief did it attack his arousal full scale. “Can I uh, ask you somethin'?”

“Of course, Mick,” Ian smiled, not moving away at all, but kissing his temple and sliding his hands around to settled against where his ass met the surface of the worktop, just sitting them there, holding him.

“You a public displays kind of guy or would it bother you to keep a lid on it?” Mickey felt nervous and it didn't sit well within him.

Ian hummed in thought, nosing at Mickey's hairline, “I like hand holding, but even that's something I keep under wraps, you know? Not something I would do walking down a packed street but more likely in a quiet park. If I'm honest, I tend to prefer discreet touches or bumps, they feel more honest? I don't know. Kissing is something I'd do spontaneously because if I was thinking about it and where I was, I'd be more likely to fight the urge until in a quiet spot, so if I do it in public, it's usually when I'm not thinking straight or on the cheek in a gesture that can be taken as friendly to outsiders. Hugging is basic isn't it really, but a proper one I like to do out of sight, because I like to hold on, as you know. Let it consume me. A quick one is nothing, nobody gives a shit about those I guess. Why, are you worried about this pizza thing? Because I won't do something that'll make you uncomfortable any more than I would do it to myself.”

Ian's honest admission had Mickey drooping in relief, absorbing the words kissed into his skin like a tattoo. “I kind of freaked out about it, yeah. I'm the same, you know, like that, and I know not everybody is and I worried I'd fuck this up by being too closed off or something, or by being too much and having some ass nugget come and start something. I didn't want to embarrass or upset you,” he said the last part quietly, though Ian was too close not to hear him, and it hit him that that was what it really was; Luke fucking him over like he had done had really damaged his perspective, but it was the thought of upsetting Ian when he was only being himself and being nice that really worried Mickey more than anything. If some asshole wanted to start, he could deal with that, but seeing hurt or disappointment on Ian's face made him feel sick on thought alone. He was in deep.

“Embarrass me? Jesus, that fucker really did a number on you, huh?” Ian mumbled into his hair, his hands moving up and tightening on Mickey's back, pressing him close. Mickey gave a nod and curled his fingers in Ian's t-shirt, his unconscious attempt to keep Ian still and not let him flee the scene now he knew just how vulnerable Mickey was underneath his brash front. “Well, I can't promise much past a delicious pizza and a night of making you moan until your voice breaks, but I will say this much – he's a dick and I'm not as far as I know and the only way you could possibly embarrass me would be to run naked through the snow, wailing about how good at fucking I am. Hell, even then it wouldn't be mad embarrassment Moo, just the kind where I'd go red and want to spank your ass,” Ian chuckled and Mickey snorted at the image in his head, watching Ian's Apple bob in his throat as he laughed.

“Dork.”

“Uh huh,” Ian grunted and pulled back with a soft look on his rosy cheeked face, holding Mickey's jaw to keep his eyes on him, “Look, I know you know I'm nothing like that dick, but then again, you don't know me all that well yet, and I have no right to question how you think. He fucked you over, shit like that does things to a guy and I'd be a major ass if I didn't understand or consider that. I just want you to know I'd never do that. I _really_ fucking like you, Mickey, seriously like you and I will _never_ do something you're uncomfortable with so you only have to say. Saying that, will you let me show you how you _should_ be treated? 'Cause I'd really like to show you.”

Mickey was astounded and hid his blushing face in Ian's neck, steadying his overwhelmed shakes with inhaling the smell of the redhead's sweet skin, letting his voice wash over him. Christ, where had he been hiding all this time? Mickey chose to divert away from the affection before he started turning to a mess, because, as soul warming as it was, he couldn't deal with too much of it, “Kind of really want a pizza now.”

Ian pushed him back and swooped in to kiss his cheeks gently, then he caught Mickey's lips again, moving with him, soft and hard and gentle and licking back cheekily. He pulled back and gave Mickey a once over, checking for something so Mickey smiled, a genuine thing that proved he felt all right now, and Ian beamed at him, bright and happy, “Let's go then. There's a pizzeria near where we all went the first night here and, no, I haven't made a reservation but they do actually do take-away boxes so we could you know, grab one and find a quiet spot to chill, if you'd like that?”

Mickey had never smiled so much in his life, he was sure of it, because his cheeks hurt, they ached as he pushed off the worktop and pressed his forehead into Ian's chest, “Fucking hell.”

“Take it you like that idea?” Ian asked, his voice full of smug pride. He gave Mickey a kiss to the top of his head and moved to pull his phone out, “Let me just call it through.”

“I can do that? They can't say they didn't understand my voice, you know, like the receptionist did?” Ian snorted and pulled up the number and handed his phone over without a blink of uncertainty.

“Fucking Callahan, I tell you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and moved away to take the call while Ian shrugged his jacket back on, zipping up the high collar until it covered all the way to his nose, “Dork – oh, hello? Can I call in an order to pick up in about twenty minutes please? Thank you. What-”

“Cheesiest thing they make.”

“-Pepperoni, medium and pan base. Yeah, what's the cheesiest pizza you do? Four cheese,” Mickey nearly choked a laugh when Ian moaned and leant back with his hands on his belly, “That'll be perfect. Same base, yeah, pan, medium, yep. Name? Michael uh, Gallagher. Great, thank you. Goodbye.”

“Michael Gallagher?” Ian seemed far to pleased by that as Mickey tapped to hang up and handed the device back, frowning his grin away.

“I'm not a Michael so wipe that off your face, twinkle features, Jesus. Where's my scarf?”

Ian laughed as Mickey fussed with wrapping the thing around his neck, “Seriously though, nothing better come to mind?”

“I was on the spot and didn't want to use my own. I know they're in our resort area but still...” Mickey grouched, his scowl dropping as soon as Ian hooked his hand before he could shoved it into a glove. He smiled and kissed the back of it softly and then let it drop, leaving Mickey to stare at it dumbly and slide the glove on, over the patch that was tingling like pins and needles while Ian fished out his own from his pockets and put them on.

“I don't mind Mick,” Ian mused, wriggling his fingers to get the thermal wadding in the right place. “What I do mind is having to go fetch food because I'd rather wait in here for it, or in my room, while kissing every spot on you I can get to. I mind that.”

“Jesus, can you not say this kind of stuff when we've gotta go out? Damn, Gallagher,” Mickey praised with a wink as Ian sauntered to the door and opened it, swooping his arm out. “Nah, you first, I gotta make sure I got my key card and some kind of currency.”

“I think the rules are, if I take you out, I cover the currency,” Ian said matter of fact as he moved into the hall and glanced about.

“Fuck you if you think I'm not buyin' the drink. I can't eat a whole pizza without something to wash it down man, who d'you think I am?” Ian laughed Mickey's incredulous gripe as he shut the door and locked it, stuffing his wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket, zipping it as Ian wandered off towards the elevator with Mickey following at a steady pace because the view was rather nice to look at. He had Mickey pressed up against the mirrored wall of the box once the doors opened, stealing a hot kiss while they had seconds to waste in there and Mickey, startled by the power Ian still managed to surprise him with, had barely got his hands on Ian's ass before the doors hissed back open with a ding. Ian grinned and flew away, walking with a hop in his step through the lobby with Mickey following him again, his face impassive and ducked to hide his flush while he dug out his beanie hat from his pocket.

“Oh, it's so fucking cold up here when the sun goes down. Jesus,” Ian grumbled into the fabric now up around his face again. It was snowing lightly so they took care to walk on the pathways, a few feet between them and Mickey toyed with the idea of a cigarette. The idea stuck and his dug out the box in his other pocket, patting for the lighter as Ian glanced at him, his fiery hair dusted with flecks of white.

“You wanna share?” Mickey asked as he took the first inhale, clogging his throat with it and letting the harshness of the smoke fill him with a satisfaction that could only come from a smoke. Ian put his hand out and Mickey carefully slotted the burning cigarette between his fingers so he didn't catch fire.

“So kind, many thanks, numb nuts,” Ian forced his voice into something posh that had Mickey shoving him with his shoulder as he inhale with a hum.

“Will be if we don't move quicker. Gotta get 'em rubbin' like sticks to start a camp fire. Friction and all that shit,” Mickey joked but swallowed his smile as Ian passed the smoke back with a heated stare, tendrils of grey wisps waving up and around his ears into the dark.

“Friction, eh?”

“Christ, don't.”

Ian hummed and flashed his eyebrows up, tipping to look elsewhere, “You said it, not me.”

“I know I did and I should learn to watch my fucking mouth around you,” Mickey took a pull and watched Ian's jaw tick as he held back whatever he wanted to reply with, clearly something smart again if his struggle to contain that smile working its way up his face said much. It wasn't working.

“So hard not to sass you on that,” Ian bit out, taking the cigarette without so much as giving Mickey a side-eye.

“If Louie can fight it, so can you, Gallagher, you're a bigger man than he is,” Mickey snorted as Ian choked.

“You're fucking with me on purpose now, aren't you?”

“Oh, how true doth words ring,” Mickey laughed and took his smoke back, intent on finishing the thing before they got anywhere near to the array of buildings and people down the way. Ian could see the approaching issue and quickly moved to Mickey's side to nudge him playfully, stroking down his back before moving further to the side, hands in his pockets with his face hidden away in his collar. He looked so pretty to Mickey with his bright eyes and the pinking of the bridge of his nose, hair speckled with snow flakes. One was sitting on his left eyebrow and he was real tempted to brush it away but he knew if he got close enough to the cute bastard, he'd want to kiss him and he knew that wasn't a wise choice where they were, not for either of them. So he tried to ignore it by looking around and walking in companionable silence the rest of the way, trying to not shoot heated glares at anyone who winked at Ian or openly flirted.

Once they had reached the restaurant, Ian looked like he was about to murder someone when he stopped with Mickey and turned to him, “Another lip bite or another once over I swear to God, I'm gonna make myself clearer than an earthquake.”

“Whoa, easy man, they're just appreciating what they see. I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanna punch their tongues down to their stomachs for being so obvious, but you are something else to look at, c'mon,” Mickey shrugged as he clapped his hands together to warm them, eyeing the front doors and the snow covered outside furniture – really? In the mountains?

“I know we aren't advertising our thing here – whoa, hold up, you mean _me_? They were looking at me?” Ian asked with dumb shock and Mickey frowned, nodding. “I wasn't talkin' about those, I didn't _see_ those, I was on about the eye fuckery you were getting! Jesus.”

“What? Pssh, calm your tits man, nobody looks at me,” Mickey laughed, choosing to ignore the way Ian's face fell into a pained expression. He waved him off and stomped to the door, “I'll get the food, you stay here and try not to kill anyone.”

“Good evening, may I help you?” Mickey hadn't even unwound his scarf enough to speak without being muffled before he was accosted by some suited up man with massive black rimmed, oval glasses and thick accent he couldn't place.

“I'm picking up a to-go order. Michael Gallagher, called about fifteen minutes ago, two pizzas,” Mickey said casually, ignoring the way his stomach jumped at the name he reeled off. The guy nodded and seemed to understand him enough, turning to hook a waiter as he passed, talking to him in low tones. He was being eyed enough as it was with a beanie on, so Mickey was half tempted to yank a glove off and display his tattooed knuckles just to really rile the guy. Judgmental Harry fucking Potter wannabe.

“Two minutes of your time, thank you. Which team are we charging to this evening Sir? USA?”

Mickey did a double take, “Excuse me?”

“I see you are a competitor, no? Am I mistaken?”

“Uh, no, no you're not but I don't get-”

“Please, Sir,” the guy put his white, pristine gloved hands up and gave a patronising grimace. Fuck this guy. “All competitors charge to their team's account. Unless you are in the lower level, which you are not right now, hm, then you are taken care of by whichever nation you are competing for. USA is it?”

“Gee, sure is, Sir,” Mickey laid it on thick and gave the most forced, sunny smile he'd ever delivered in his life. The guy bought it with a sneer and tapped something into his little kiosk, ignoring Mickey and his flat scowl until the waiter came back with two blue boxes in a brown bag.

“Good evening, Mister Milkovich,” Harry not-Potter said as Mickey took his boxes with a salute. Screw him and his toffed up nose and his I-know-who-you-are bullshit. Yeah, he wasn't easily ignored Mickey guessed, so they guy might've been a hockey fan, but whatever, he was annoying as fuck and if Mickey kicked his plant on the way through the door then it was only because he slipped and the pot cracked because it was made of fucking paper.

“Ooh, the victor the spoils,” Ian beamed as Mickey strode over to him, smirking at the amount of white sprinkles sitting on the redhead's styled hair.

“You look like you got sneezed on by a giant coke-head,” Mickey snorted.

“Holy- you paid without me even realising?”

“Nah, _apparently_ , Harry Potter in there says we charge to our team account or something. Wasn't gonna argue so let's fuckin' move before he comes out with his white gloves and sticks them down my neck.”

Ian looked less pained as he dogged Mickey's swift walk through the snowy street, “That's good then. Did you get anything to drink?”

The smell of the food was making Mickey's mouth water as he followed Ian motioning to the right into a darkened area of the resort, something ahead lit up with fairy lights and a one bright flood lamp, “No. He was going to get a red hot pizza thrown in his face if I'd had to suffer his pompous thou-art-holier-than shit any longer than I had to.”

“S'OK though,” Ian laughed, his eyes bright and on Mickey, “There's a little stand down here. We can get something while we watch and eat.”

“Huh?”

Ian smiled and bumped Mickey's shoulder, laughing his shock when he nearly upended the boxes onto the floor with a wobbled step, “Shit, nearly... Yeah, uh, dinner and show. You'll see.”

Mickey gave a nod and held the boxes tighter, walking through the crunching snow once the walkway ended and followed Ian until the trees gave way and an ice rink appeared, people skating around with smiles and laughter under an obnoxious amount of fairy lights. “Oh my god,” he chuckled, Ian sniggering next to him as he stopped to take in the cheesy scene. Ian bumped his hip and nodded to a set of picnic tables under massive, square parasols tucked away from where most of the action was, and Mickey followed, his cheeks burning up and there was no way he could blame the cold. _Just focus on Ian_.

“Found this yesterday while walking with Carl. This is the route to the slopes for recreational skiing as well as the route up to where our countrymen and women are throwing themselves off ramps and half pipes for medals,” Ian explained as they approached a table and Mickey placed the boxes down as soon as he could. He smiled and popped them open and then frowned.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? What's this crap?!” he snapped and stared down at two pizzas that were definitely not pepperoni or four cheese. Ian gasped and started laughing through his wide open mouth and Mickey turned to look at him, his breath curling in a fog around his pink nose. “They got our order wrong.”

“Oh my God,” Ian giggled, ducking to kiss Mickey's cheek before he buried his face in his neck, the tip of his cold nose nothing but a tingle on the cool skin of Mickey's throat.

“What's so funny?”

“Your face is a picture,” Ian mumbled against his skin, his breath hot and his giggles childish.

“Fuck knows why you're so damn happy, you got a choice of...” he tried to peer closer by Ian's weight kept him from moving much as the skater pressed in to stifle his noises, “Chicken and god-knows-what or some kinda fucking fruit mess. There's pineapple and, what the fuck is that, _sultanas_?! The fuck!”

“Oh man,” Ian kissed the skin he was trying to bite to cover his giggling and pulled away. “You smell like an orange grove. Can I eat you instead?” He asked as he shuffled around the table to sit with his back to the trees so he could watch and see everyone in the vicinity with his sharp, doe eyes. Mickey watched him, mind blown by the fact that he could say something so loaded and yet appear so innocent and unaffected.

“Guess it's Russian roulette tonight,” Mickey covered his flash of arousal as he sat down with a rub off his nose and an inhale of weird pizza smell. It wasn't strange before, but now he could see the mess in front of him, it smelt weird. They ate bites of each one quietly, watching the skaters on the small rink with mild amusement, hissing every time one of them fell and bounced or cried, all the while, pretending they weren't sitting thigh to hip and deliberately trying to rile each other up by licking fingers clean or moaning around mouthfuls of fruited pizza and chicken that burnt on the way down.

“So glad I didn't pay for this,” Ian said as he bit into a chicken slice and pulled a face upon meeting a bright red chilli. “S'kinda disgusting really.”

“Says he who was moaning like a whore a second ago,” Mickey snorted, dropping his in favour of not throwing up all over the boxes. It could improve the food, but he'd rather not attempt it in favour of keeping Ian interested in him – he was a loud vomiter.

“Didn't hear any complaints then, so I refuse to hear them now. Drink?” Ian asked, brushing his hands together with a bit of snow off ground, clearing away the grease and linger spices.

“Hm, we in a dark corner?”

Ian glanced about and frowned, “Yeah, but what's that got to do with a drink, Mick?”

“Drink can wait. I want to see if the pizza tastes better with a hint of ginger,” Mickey winked and earned himself a groan at his lameness but a slow kiss nonetheless. “Hm, does taste better.”

“Much as I agree, and want to keep testing that theory, I really want a drink. That pepper or chilli or neat ass lava is burning my stomach,” Ian pulled a face as he moved to stand up and Mickey sighed, clearing up the boxes of nowhere near half eaten pizza.

“When did you become so dramatic, huh?”

“Since I discovered I am a pussy when it comes to fucked up, spiced to hell pizza,” Ian said before breaking out a mega watt grin and waltzing off to the hut on the other side of the rink. Mickey stayed put and made a few snowballs while he waited for Ian to come back, making sure not launch them until the cups were down on the table and Ian open for attack.

“Had some papaya, helps apparently and they have fruit bowls in there, who knew?” Ian breathed and suspiciously eyed Mickey where he stood with his hands behind his back. Mickey had forgotten he has a gaggle of siblings and realised his error.

“Think fast, twinkle toes,” Mickey warned and opened fire.

“Oh, fuck, you sneaky little bully!” Ian ducked and tried to brace against the pelting and managed to withstand it until Mickey had run out of snowballs and was chuckling at the sorry state of the redhead, dotted with snow puffs and breathing heavily. He was chuckling until Ian gave him a dirty grin and reached up into his hood.

“And you say I'm sneaky? What the hell, man?” Mickey tried to dodge, but they hit him regardless of how much he moved. “Fuck, _ow_ , the hell are you, a fuckin' grenade launcher on your days off? Ow!”

“I have brothers and sisters and there is nowhere I can't hide something. You fired first so suck it up!” the amount of innuendoes Mickey wanted to call him on was making it difficult to stay standing, so, he charged and tackled Ian around the waist, burying him in a bank of snow behind the tables and out of sight of the skaters. There was no better sound to Mickey's ears than Ian's honest laughter. So, not wanting to give up the opportunity as it presented itself, Ian underneath him and breathless, Mickey pulled away from where he'd tucked his face into Ian's chest and shuffled up enough to catch his bottom lip between his own, suckling on it until Ian opened his mouth and snaked his tongue into Mickey's. He kept moving until he had his hands in the snow either side of Ian's pinking face and his knees bracketing his waist, kissing him quiet, or he was until Mickey angled his head and got a particularly good slide of his lips and tongue and created a monster; Ian moaned, unabashedly and loud and it took Mickey by surprise. Usually he was the loudest and he pulled back with a panting smirk.

“What's all this noise for, huh? Something to your liking?” he breathed, shifting in a manner that had his ass snugly covering Ian's crotch, making out like he was finding something uncomfortable under it. “The thought of getting caught turning you on, Ian? God, _what_ is digging into m-”

“You know full well what's digging into your smart ass,” Ian said, trying to pull him back down, “C'mon Mick, you know I love your lips. Kiss me some more, please?”

“Nah. You're gonna get sick lay in all this snow. Come on, get up,” he got up slowly and gave Ian a hand up, “I got a perfectly warm room with a nice, big bed in it that-” Ian cut him off with a hard kiss, hugging him close and looping his arms around Mickey's neck.

“I'm cold and wet now. I'm thinking of a hot, steamy shower, first” Ian whispered against his cheek, kissing his jaw and nosing at the edge of Mickey's hat. It took him seconds to move, dragging the lanky, laughing ginger by the arm of his jacket through the tables and out towards the hotels with sure feet and a walk not unlike a determined solider after an enemy. He let go of Ian's sleeve once they got close enough to other people, opting instead to walk next to him and close enough that anyone who had eyes could divert them and not go all flirty on either of them this time around. Mickey's calves ached by the time they got in the elevator, hating the fact that it was occupied by some girls from a team neither of them could guess at as they did nothing but giggled at either of them and twirled their fingers through their hair and cocked their hips out, biting lips and batting eyelashes. Ian was bashful whereas Mickey knew he looked as uncomfortable by the display as he felt, though it didn't stop either of the women from flirting with him no matter how much be backed into the corner and stared at the ceiling.

“Mick?” Ian called, walking out the box, his eyes on Mickey despite the tittering of the girls trying to get his attention before he vanished. Mickey shot out as quick as he could as triumphantly grabbed Ian's hand and laced their fingers in sight of the girls as the doors slid shit. “Marking your territory?” Ian wondered as he was hauled down the hallway.

“I put my mouth on you, you put your cock in me. Until you tell me you don't want me hanging around, yeah, I'm going to make sure my territory is fucking known. That all right by you?” he mumbled as he attempted to unlock his door with one swipe, happy when he managed it and pushed Ian through first.

“So long as you don't mind me doing the same thing?” Ian hummed as he leant against the wall, calling Mickey over with a gleam in his eye and coy grin. Mickey shook his head in answer and unzipped the jacket, leaning to kiss Ian's smile away and get him out of his wet clothes as quickly as possible. He didn't want him sick after all. With his mouth occupied, Ian's lack of multitasking skill that didn't involve fancy footwork really came into play, to the point where Mickey had to wrestled the wet jacket off and frown heavily.

“Strip. I'll be in the bathroom.”

“Fuck,” Ian moaned, doing as ordered, the sound of clothes being removed hastily following Mickey as he wandered into his bathroom and barked at the shower, taking his clothes off carefully and placing them on the counter. He turned to look in the mirror as he tore off his jeans and stopped to see Ian walk in behind him, catching his eyes instantly and holding the gaze until he hand his fingers crawling down the dips of Mickey's hips, into his groin and thumbing the bulge of his dick through his boxer briefs. He leant down to sink his teeth into the meat of Mickey's shoulder, pressing them in enough to cause a dull ache, never taking his eyes away from the darkening blue watching him.

“Just gonna look or you wanna get it on?”

“I'm buck ass naked, Moo, you've still got underwear on so, you might want to fix that,” Ian said coolly, pressing against his back so Mickey could feel the hard, hot line of his cock against the curve of the top of his cheeks.

“Sh-shit,” there was no stopping the tremor through his legs or the goosebumps breaking out everywhere, or the roll of his eyes as his lids shut nor the deep swallow he made as Ian licked and sucked on the tendon of his neck.

“Present for us,” Ian sighed as something was placed on the counter and Ian moved away. Mickey opened his eyes to look down and see the bottle of lube sitting there, an open condom wrapper and Ian's shape behind the frosted glass of the shower, all pale and lean lines even through the blurred screen. Mickey tore at his boxers and grabbed the bottle, up-capping it as he rounded the glass and slid the door shut, turning to press the bottle into Ian's hand as he ran his lubed up fingers between his ass cheeks. “You're not doing that, no, come here,” Ian said thickly, squirting out lube into his palm and grabbing Mickey with his other hand to move him, pressing him under the spray against the tiles so it rained down Ian's back and kicked his feet apart; with a kiss to distract him, Mickey felt his right leg being lifted until his thigh locked over Ian's sharp hip as he pressed close, looping his arm down Mickey's back and around his hip to begin fingering him open, turning to lean them side-on a little so he had better access.

“Oh Jesus,” Mickey hissed as the first finger breached him, teasing and probing while Ian sucked and bit and kissed everywhere below Mickey's jaw that he could reach with Mickey tipping his head back. Ian's other hand moved from Mickey's neck to his ass, pulling his cheek out and away as he suck a second finger in alongside the first, spreading and tugging with them until Mickey was clawing at his back and trying to heft his leg higher, trying to get more, always more.

“You're so passionate, Mick,” Ian remarked, kissing up his throat, “So responsive to me. You're damn addictive. Gonna fuck you against the wall, fill you up, stretch you open and pin you. You want that, Mickey?”

If he could answer with words, he would have tried diligently, but as it was, with Ian adding the third finger with careful ministrations and sucking kisses to his jaw, Mickey only gave a moan in agreement. Ian deemed him stretched enough and moved Mickey again, letting him down to the floor and pushing him until he was crouching and Ian was kneeling on a sodden towel. “What's this?”

“That's for my knees,” Ian said as he settled under Mickey and pulled him down to sit on his spread thigh, reaching to pull over another towel, only this one folded and not half as soaked. He kissed Mickey while he fixed it behind his back, the fluffy fabric a nice buffer between his spine and shoulders and the harsh tiling of the wall. As Ian lifted him and pulled his pelvis forward, lining up his cock that he'd wrapped before even entering the room, it occurred to Mickey that he was about to be fucked face to face on the floor of his shower, legs hugged in the crook of Ian's elbows with the skater's eyes locked on his no matter what. How intimate.

“Holy shit!” Mickey shouted as the stretch of his rim gave to the head of Ian's dick and the hard, push-pull of him as he steadily made to bottom out with Mickey pinned between him and the wall, panting and whining at the fullness and the buzz of arousal firing on all cylinders around his body.

“Oh my God, Mick, fucking _Jesus_ ,” Ian gushed, once flush with Mickey's ass, his arms taut as he grasped his Mickey's damp hips and caught his open mouth, kissing messily, hungrily as he began to thrust hard and sharp. Mickey felt so alive, so receptive to the feeling as Ian hit him everywhere with his presence; he felt the heat of his kisses, the white hot pleasure he was unleashing with his measured thrusts, the careful way in which he held Mickey still so he didn't rebound against the wall or shift the towel too much to lose it, the pleasured agony with which he moaned and huffed and whimpered into Mickey's open mouth, trying to kiss him but only managing to catch his bottom lip with his top as his rolling hips got harder. Mickey held on tight to Ian's neck and head, lost in his pleasure as his prostate was knocked and rubbed and hit repeatedly, electrifying his skin and sending him off into that other realm again.

“Can you, shit, hold still?” Mickey gasped, barely managing to swallow in air let alone enough to wet his throat, and as Ian did as he asked and held still on his inward stroke, Mickey began to grunt, broken breaths and praises of _you're so good, so good, feels so good_ , or he hoped he was. He was pretty certain he was babbling mindlessly. Ian kissed at his throat and realised what he was doing, nuzzling the slick skin he found as he shifted his waist ever-so slightly to rub and press Mickey's prostate like he was thumbing a nipple, over and over the slight movements sparked through his body.

“Good?” Ian asked, nipping along his jaw as his thumbs rubbed circles into Mickey's hipbones, “Jeez, Mick, you're so pretty and gorgeous and I love making you feel like this, God, you're face is amazing and the noises... is this enough?”

Mickey gulped and tipped his head down, watching Ian's look a rapture as his body shifted with every move, looking at how ruined the skater was, “Hold steady and it will be, yeah. Next time, I want your cock in my mouth, Ian. I want to taste it and feel the heat of it stretching the fuck out of my jaw because so far, I've been- oh _fuck_ , oh god!”

“Haa Mickey, Christ, keep talking,” Ian groaned, sharp little thrusts of his hips driving Mickey's pleasure threshold through his skull. So close.

“I've been denied, ahhh, and I want it, I want it, fuck, so bad. I want to you come in my mouth, I want to taste it and _fu_ -ck, shit, Ian, _Ian_ ,” Mickey moaned, sucking his lip into his mouth to shut himself up before he sounded like an idiot. He could feel the weight of Ian in his ass, inside his body, and his mouth ached to have it, he could imagine the feeling, he knew the smell of it for the scent of Ian's arousal was heavy in the steamy air and, as he envisioned the redhead pushing into his mouth until Mickey's nose was buried in that thatch of red pubic hair, Ian moaned and latched onto his neck with a hard shift, pushing harder against his prostate. Mickey came between their torsos with a sharp yell, his cock trapped and his ass clamping down hard, completely taken by surprise and left whimpering and gasping for air as Ian grunted into his neck and gripped his shoulders, arms trapped behind Mickey's back as he fucked up into him hard, panicky almost with the pace he set, chasing his own end with desperation.

“ _Fuck_ , so tight,” Ian gasped, letting out noises like he was in pain so Mickey pulled him close and kissed him, holding his jaw as he licked into Ian's panting mouth, moaning as sensitivity started seeping in and grunted as he felt Ian swell just that little bit more.

"Come on, Ian, s'right there isn't it? I can feel it, feel you gettin' thicker... come for me, baby," Mickey urged softly, nosing along his jaw, ignoring the ache in his legs and back in favour of watching with open wonder as Ian's orgasm washed over and through him, his face twisting and his eyes wide and stunned, locked onto Mickey's as his mouth fell open on a choked grunt. He kept still for a moment as Ian seemed to come back to the world, his eyes softening and his mouth curling into a beautiful smile. “Mickey, 'baby'?”

“Hmm, complainin'?,” Mickey gave him a wink and accepted the affectionate kisses and nuzzles to his neck, thoroughly enjoying those given to his mouth and cheeks and nose with a shake of disagreement. “Will you stay tonight?”

“If you don't mind?” Ian shifted to disengage their limbs, hissing as he stood and helped Mickey up, rubbing at his back and shoulders and hips.

“I wouldn't ask if I minded. Kind of like it actually,” Mickey sighed, closing his eyes as Ian chuckled and soothed away his aches and soreness with kisses and touches in his third shower of the day, but by far the better of the trio. He couldn't fault this one at all, not with a passionate and loving redhead soaping him up like he wanted nothing more to do with his night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........ idek. I tried. Did you like? Goddamn sweet boys. They deserve silly times before getting ploughed into the shower wall, no? Sweetens the blow, so to speak. 
> 
> Speaking of blowing....HE WILL GET THAT DICK IN HIS MOUTH, I WILL WRITE IT I PROMISE!  
> also... Grumpy, did you spot the picture reference parts??? there's like, three... :}
> 
> I love you. I'm on tumblr, come say hi! I'm under this same name, Elfydwarf, i would link it but... so, so tired.


	11. The Power Of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's main program day is here and Mickey has to practice. Though, Mickey does get a lovely surprise just before he sinks into a dark pit of worry after seeing a video of Ian during his morning program. After his entire team finally works out just who Ian is, Mickey realizes he might just be feeling a little bit more towards the skater than basic attraction - ambushed, as Mandy said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know, this took me ages to get out, days in fact, but then I had a lot of things to do in my 'real' life that just got in the darn way and pushed this back. It's long, but then again, it's probably not enough for your patience... i love you all! Ugh, you don't even know!
> 
> WARNING: Panic attack. A full one. (the reason this took me ages to do is because i have panic attacks and i almost triggered myself writing it - wrote it how mine set in, so, WARNING, i am real fucking sorry if i set any of you off. IT'S ON THE TRAIN AFTER MICKEY WATCHES THE VIDEO SO SKIP THAT UNTIL YOU GET TO HIM TRAINING IF YOU WORRY IT'LL SET YOU OFF. I'm sorry if it does, not my intention. NOT. AT. ALL.)  
> Also: Sex, first thing really, sex, panic attack, mentions of injury, violence - hockey - and a lot of swearing. And mushy Mickey too, or rather, his family. 
> 
> Enjoy guys! again, sorry it took me ages.

 

“Mickey?”  
  
Mickey heard the voice, reaching out to him to lure him out of his techni-colour dream, curling around his mind like a heavy arm, tugging and pulling. He sighed and nudged his nose deeper into the pillow he was hugging.   
  
“Mick,” there was a hot pressure on the back of his neck, moving around like flashes of lightning, warming Mickey's skin and waking it steadily even as he fought to ignore it. “Mickey,” the voice sang to him, soft and full of mirth, goading him into pulling out of the sleep haze he wanted to keep. He became aware of the heat moving from his nape to his shoulder, peppering the skin there like rain and Mickey smiled, realising without any doubt that it was Ian kissing him awake sweetly.   
  
“Why're you awake?” Mickey huffed into the pillow, moving his body a little as it woke up, stretching and loosening further the more Ian rained kisses on his shoulder blade.

Ian hummed and pressed his nose under Mickey's ear, nudging him until Mickey cracked an eye, squeezing his pillow with pleasure as Ian's sleepy face entered his line of sight, stunning and sweet even in the dim light of the room. There was a lamp on somewhere and the room was warming, chilly a little, but getting there. What time was it?  
  
“Alarm, moo,” Ian mumbled, kissing the part of Mickey's jaw that wasn't embedded in the pillow, “Mine, my alarm. I gotta go in a bit and I wanted to make sure you knew so you didn't think I'd just fucked off.”  
  
Mickey was suddenly waking up all too quick, groggily at that as he pushed up and blearily stared at Ian's sad looking face, “What? Why?”  
  
“My event's today.”  
  
Mickey's eyes opened wide and he took a deep breath through his nose, rubbing at his eyes when they itched in protest, “Kept that quiet. Time is it?”  
  
Ian was kneeling, part crouched where he was, watching Mickey with a soft little smile playing with his mouth, eyes droopy and kind, “You got your own shit to deal with so I didn't wanna say in case you felt like I was trying to cling or something? Make you feel like you have to come see me or worry and get all distracted and hurt and stuff...I don't know. It makes sense in my head. I'd love for you to watch but I know you have training and your match is tomorrow – I only know this because I watch the coverage channels, the TV, not stalking you, I promise,” Ian assured and Mickey chuckled, dropping his face into his pillow. This worrisome, sweet ass dork. Ian winked and leant over the bed to reach his phone on the floor, lighting the room a little more as he pressed it, “it's twenty past four. I gotta be out of the hotel in just over an hour. I packed my kit yesterday so I can just run upstairs and grab it before I bolt out. Train leaves at six.”

“And you thought you'd wake me up in advance because?” Mickey asked, cracking an eye to see Ian grinning at him, a bright, blinding thing that was full of mischief and promise. What was going on it that dream-messed redhead of his? Ian shifted and lay on his side, thumbing Mickey's jaw softly, tenderly as his eyes roamed every part of Mickey's face, soft and thoughtful.

“I wanted to make sure you knew why I'd left. Look, my kid brother would always wonder where I was going in the early hours when I had events and stuff, and I'd tell him in his sleepy state but he'd never remember properly and he assumed the worst once he'd woken up later on, freaking out and panicking or thinking me a liar. I don't want you thinking I'm bailing and I want you to remember so when you wake up later, you don't worry you did anything or whatever, you know? I guess it's ingrained in me now, the need to reassure. Plus I kinda wanted to kiss you goodbye.”

Mickey shifted so he was more on his side, pulling his leg up but not letting go of the pillow, “You're sweet. No need to worry though. Got the whole deal today then?”  
  
Ian traced his mouth, smirking when Mickey licked the pad of his thumb, “Hmm. Both sets, yeah. Depending on where I place, maybe a medal, a few days of press and stuff. If not, still a few days of press. Someone wants to do videos about choreography and jumps like they did for Sochi.”   
  
Mickey hummed and reached out from under the soft confines of the pillow to touch Ian's bare chest softly, “Sounds fun.”

“Really, _really_ is,” the sarcasm was thick and Mickey scoffed, curling his hand up Ian's neck to pull him closer. “You want a kiss, Mick?” like he needed to ask, really, as Mickey kept pulling until he could catch sleep-fattened lips with his, humming with pleasure as Ian moved closer still, his hand skating up Mickey's calf to hold the back of his knee.

“Wish you'd told me sooner though,” Mickey said as he pulled back, his croaky voice soft still, “Would've liked to see.”

“You've got your own thing to focus on, so, guess I didn't want to give you any more distractions than I already have. I'm selfish like that,” Ian winked, stealing another kiss.

“You _are_ a fucking distraction, not gonna lie,” Mickey grinned, allowing Ian to push him back onto his front so he could pepper Mickey's nape and shoulders with hot kisses again, hands stroking and rubbing up and down his back as Ian carefully straddled over his thighs. “You really have to go?”

Ian cleared his throat and ghosted his breath over Mickey's ear, using his shoulder to prop his chin, “Yeah. Got an hour though.”

Mickey didn't want him to go, not at all, and _not at all_. He knew what would happen after today, might not have been said aloud, but he knew; Ian might - _would_ \- win a medal, do some press for a few days and then he'd be a free man to explore and do whatever he wanted until the closing ceremony, being a medal holder and all of that, _but_ , if he didn't win anything, he wasn't required to stay behind at all, and that was out of his hands entirely, totally up to his coach if they stayed or left. Mickey knew all of this, they'd gone through it with their own coach. Mickey prayed to God Ian got a fighting chance at nailing a medal because, even though it was mostly rooted deep in his own selfish desire to keep the skater close for as long as possible, it would be fucking amazing for Ian, not just his name, but the guy in general. He deserved a win for all the effort he gave.

“Stop thinking, please?” Ian begged, kissing down Mickey's spine, “I don't want to go either. I can swindle Lana if I have to, but I'd rather not think about all of that until it's in my face... now though, I'd really like to part with some passionate sex, if you're feeling receptive?”

Mickey echoed the light laugh, pushing his thoughts into a noise-cancelling box in the furthest part of his skull, giving over to feeling and sensation as he hummed in agreement, bowing his back to push his ass up into the curve of Ian's navel as he landed kiss after kiss to Mickey's neck, shoulder and jaw hinge. Those soft, sure hands travelled to grasp and pull at the meat of Mickey's hips, stroking and pawing while Ian shifted to press his half hard cock against Mickey's backside, pulling a deep groan out of Mickey's throat as heat trickled up and down his back and legs, coiling together in his belly and groin, lighting his thighs on fire. Much as he was on board with a passionate round, Mickey's mouth watered at the feeling of that hard line pressing against him through his boxers.

“Want to taste you,” he grumbled, swatting his hand back to touch at Ian's hip, dragging his fingers the best he could along the fabric he found.  
  
“What's that?”  
  
Mickey shifted and pushed up on his arms, head bowed to Ian's sucking mouth while it travelled the expanse of his shoulders. “I want to suck your cock,” he enunciated clearly, smiling dirtily when Ian moaned and licked his skin, pressing harder against the globes of his ass. It took a minute or so more before Ian let up on his stroking and kissing, his worship of Mickey's back – _Jesus Christ, you're broad and solid and soft and fucking hell Mick_ – before he moved back and gave Mickey the freedom to turn over and prop himself up with the pillow behind his back and neck, hands ready to grab at Ian's sharp hips and pull him closer, making him shuffle on his knees until his crotch was level with Mickey's face.

“You sure?”  
  
Mickey gazed up over the bulge in Ian's boxers, mouthing at his balls through them while popping up an eyebrow cheekily, hands kneading and groping around Ian's ass and the backs of his thighs. “Wouldn't do it if I didn't want to, trust me,” he sighed, nipping and licking the taut skin of the redhead's navel along his waistband, pushing the elastic down to suck at the groove of his hip, that V that teased and lured him every time it peeked out when Ian stretched.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian breathed as he pulled down Ian's boxers to his thighs, the spread of his knees disallowing them to go any further and Mickey huffed a laugh as his cock smacked his nose.

“Pretty hard already, aren't you?” Mickey mused, taking in the glorious sight of Ian staring at down at him in the dim light, his face hungry, his mouth parted and his chest heaving. Mickey took him in hand and felt the heat, the burning skin of his erection properly for the first time, groaning at the size and weight of it throbbing in his loose fist. It was _glorious_. Every detail of this moment had Mickey wondering if he could hear angels singing somewhere; it was that or his blood was running so wild in his ears that the white noise was distorting.

“All because of you. Just- _fuck_ , haaa,” Ian hissed, cupping the back of Mickey's head gently, not urging, merely grounding himself as Mickey tugged harder, mouthing at the base and along the crease of his thigh. “Just having you under me does this.”  
  
Mickey inhaled deeply and licked the hot skin of Ian's hip, humming at his words as he pulled his head back to run his tongue over the smooth head of Ian's dick, kissing softly, licking with tiny flicks of his tongue before licking a thick, fat and wet stripe from base to tip as he jerked slowly. Ian moaned and Mickey shook at little, knowing he was the reason for it, that he was the one responsible for the fire in Ian's gaze, the heavy breathing and lip sucking. He pulled back again and looked up, giving Ian a wink, not helping the skaters transfixed state, not at all, and opened his mouth. Ian moaned, ready and not for whatever was coming, his fingers tightening where they cupped Mickey's skull, the others digging into the pillow beside Mickey's head.

Mickey quickly licked and sucked and coated Ian's cock with as much saliva as he could muster - which wasn't a difficult thing, because _fuck_ was his mouth watering - and then he took it into his mouth, groaning around the girth, feeling his jaw tighten and twitch with the stretch. He knew Ian was a big boy, he'd felt him inside his body, felt that burn, but _Christ_ , this was overloading Mickey's brain, sending whatever blood he had left in his thundering heart straight to his own cock, fattening it out. He could totally understand why Ian had gotten so high giving him a blowjob in that bathroom because fuck, the feel, the smell, the noises. He knew this was leading to sex, but he was already making a mental note to do this again and complete the job, have Ian in pieces and himself a total mess by the end of it, have him come in his mouth, have him whimpering and barely able to stand up, knees weak and head in the clouds. He'd repay his skater in kind, he would.

“Jesus fucking hell Mick, look at that,” Ian spoke as though he was deep in wonder, soft and breathless as Mickey got to work, using his tongue as best he could while pulling his wet lips back and forth, tugging what he couldn't fit with his hand. “Your lips are just- _oh_ my god. Fuck. Mick, _Mickey_ , you're so good, so fucking good,” Ian praised, his grip changing from grounding to guiding when Mickey pulled his hip, telling him silently that he could move as Mickey had a his mouth thoroughly filled, moaning around the flesh as Ian slowly and carefully pushed and pulled with his bobbing head. All Mickey could do was breathe deeply through his nose, following the pump of his hand so he didn't choke, moaning and humming as bitterness burst along his taste buds. He pulled off to suck each of Ian's balls into his mouth, loving them with his tongue until Ian shifted and moved away, giving Mickey a breathless, toothy smile as he yanked down his boxers and pushed his knees up and out, his tongue hot and wet and fat as he licked over Mickey's hole with desperate noises.

“Holy _shit,_ Ian, shit,” Mickey gasped highly, throwing his head back while he grabbed to hold his knees up, taking over so Ian could spread his cheeks further and suck, spear and roll his tongue from his hole to his balls and back, over and over, adding a finger once Mickey had begun panting. Mickey's sleepy mind was all over the place, fighting to regain some control as feeling ran riot.

“Wanna be in you, so bad, _so_ bad Mick,” Ian moaned against the back of Mickey's thigh, licking the skin. Mickey groaned in agreement. “Back in a second. Lube's in the bathroom.”   
  
With Ian gone, Mickey kicked off his underwear and rearrange himself, stroking his cock slowly for the few seconds until Ian bounded back in, straight back to fingering him open and biting his ass cheeks. The lube helped speed things up but Ian still took his time lavishing all of the skin he could with bites and nips and kisses and whispers of filth. Mickey just took it all in stride, fisting the pillow behind his head, spreading his legs and opening his hips as wide as he could, electrified and high with pleasure, drowning in the feeling of a hot tongue and wet fingers loosening him up.   
  
“OK, OK,” Ian panted, wiping his mouth the back of his hand as he drew in air, reaching to get the condom on, tearing it open with fumbling fingers, the sound tickling Mickey all over. “On your front, moo,” Ian mumbled, rolling the latex down his shaft, and Mickey did as he was told, letting Ian adjust his position until he was braced with a pillow to hug, legs flat and open a little with Ian's knees crowding either side off his thighs, arms hot against Mickey's ribs as he pushed into his body, gliding in as smooth as he skated.   
  
“ _Oh_ fuck,” Mickey groaned, moaned it again when Ian gave him no time to settle, thrusting quickly, pulling his leg up to cradle Mickey's ribs on his right, his arm snaking under his chest to hold Mickey still with a flat hand on his collar, kisses and bites showering his nape and shoulder.

“Feel so good, Mick, so good,” Ian worshipped, groaning into his hair when Mickey dropped his head, gasping and grunting with the hard pace. Lube dribbled down his sack, spread over his ass cheeks whenever Ian palmed him briefly, making the path from his lower back to his left shoulder slippery and silky. Mickey still marvelled at how his ass fit perfectly into the bowl of Ian's pelvis, loving the noise their skin made in collision, Ian's breaths and his grunts and moans ensuring the sound was filthy. His mind in heaven, Mickey smiled. “ _Fuck_ , feels too good, you're too good. So keyed, Mick, Jesus. Turn over, turn over.”

Ian pulled out and moved out of the way so Mickey could move as quickly as his aroused body would allow him, limbs getting caught on the quilts in their sticky, sweaty state. Jesus he was a mess and he loved every single second of it as he lay back and spread his legs, grabbing at Ian's shoulders to pull him down for a kiss now that he could. As Mickey licked and moaned into Ian's barely reciprocating mouth, tasting himself and the clinical tang of lube, he felt his knees being pushed towards his chest before his knees were locked into the crooks of sweaty elbows and his ass opened with a hot, smooth pressure. Ian still gave it his all, thrusting hard as he shifted his legs to kneel, bracketing Mickey's hips with his knees to he could push him further back, lifting his ass off the bed, arms locked and next to Mickey's face.

Breaking his kissing, much as it was sloppy and messy, Ian ducked and feverishly began suckling and groaning into Mickey's neck the harder he rolled his hips, moving his arms so he could curl them under Mickey's shoulders, holding his head and scratching his scalp and sending Mickey's skin into a blaze of overloaded sensation as his weight settled. Mickey was well and truly trapped, being used, being pampered and adored and fucked senseless. There was no word, no sound, no syllable he could muster to tell Ian just how much he was loving the hell out what he was doing to his body, to his mind.

“M'so close Mick... you're fucking magic, I swear,” Ian groaned, taking away his speed in exchange for power, hard and sure thrusts against Mickey's prostate as he found his voice and moaned _loud_ , grunting, cursing, praising, clawing at Ian's back and ass as his toes curled over Ian's shoulders. The redhead pulled back just a little, giving up some space, and held onto Mickey's hips, keeping his legs nice and high and spread wide; Mickey had his hand wrapped around his own cock in a flash, pulling, tugging, softly caressing until the pressure of Ian's powerful strikes against his prostate drew his balls up tight.

“Oh shit! Ian, m'gonna come, shit, fu-”

“Yes,” Ian hissed, running his hands all over Mickey's abdomen while he thrust a little slower, heaving in breaths, watching the muscles tighten before Mickey began grunting, tensing up and twitching, coming hard with a shout that tapered into a whine and a moan as his cock gave up pulsing and Ian took up slamming into him again, bending over to cradle all of Mickey that he could, kissing and pressing promises into his neck, up his jaw and over his cheekbone until Ian had his cheek pressed tightly to Mickey's temple, fisting a hand in his hair and the other in the pillow. This was, by far, the most passionate round of sex Mickey had ever had, completely erasing anything that resembled love-making or heated fucking with _anyone_. He felt consumed, hating that it was almost over.   
  
Maybe it was Ian in general, how he made Mickey feel about himself, about him, or maybe it was how he knew what to do with Mickey's body, knew what he was doing and learned the good spots, knew how to use his cock without causing any pain, only pleasure, where to kiss and how to use his teeth, his fingers, _everything_. It was like Mickey was an open book and Ian had yet to put him down, intent on reading every word, every line, every single detail he could.

Mickey pulled his face out of his neck, locked their eyes and sucked in Ian's bottom lip, biting on it, licking and loving it like a candy, holding it between his teeth as Ian's orgasm hit him, making him shake and stiffen and groan so low and deep that Mickey shuddered. He released the plump lip once Ian had stopped moving and grunting, smiling as soon as he could remember how to do it, laughing before planting soft kisses all over Mickey's cheeks and jaw, cuddling him close until their heart rates slowed, letting his legs down and settling his chest down so his weight didn't crush Mickey is his boneless state.

After tracing his fingers everywhere he could reach, Ian removed himself and went into the bathroom, leaving Mickey to stretch lazily and smile, completely pliant and pleased with himself. “Go back to sleep,” Ian said as he came back with a damp cloth, cleaning Mickey even though he tried to snatch the cloth away and do it himself. Accepting his fate, Mickey made sure to stretch right out and give Ian all of the access he wanted, earning a soft laugh and plenty of kisses to freshly cleaned areas of skin. Mickey rolled and snagged his pillow again, hugging it close and lifting up his leg to slot it against his sensitive crotch, watching Ian quietly dress himself.

“What time are your sets?” Mickey asks softly, his eyes heavy again. Ian licked his mouth and pulled on his t-shirt.

“Short program is before lunch, long program is after, around two or three this afternoon,” he said, cracking his neck and rolling his head. “You should get some more sleep.”

“M'gonna, don't worry your pretty ass about it,” Mickey said on a yawn. He was trying to pin that to his memory board, knowing he'd be in the vicinity around lunch time for training while the other matches took place again. He was miffed that he'd miss any opportunity to see the short program but he'd deal, there was the highlights channel and they always did slow-motion which was a bonus if he caught it. Ian Gallagher, in slow-mo? He'd just have to suffer it. “See you later then. Oh, I wish you all the luck in the world, Bilbo.”

“Thank you, Bofur,” Ian laughed and grabbed the last of his things, stuffing them into pockets before leaning over Mickey's dozing body to give him a powerful kiss goodbye. He pulled the quilts up and softly said, “See you later.”

 

 

Mickey sat on the sofa and waited for Skype to load up, sipping his bottle of cherry water and eyeing the clock. It was after ten, and he had very little time before he needed to leave for the train but he'd packed his kit ready and would push it if he got five minutes to talk to his dad. The page hadn't even stopped loading before the tell-tale song played and he smiled, clicking accept.

The screen was black for a moment, crackling and pixelating as Mickey watched himself in the bottom corner, trying to school the grin on his face. “Mickey?”

“Yeah dad, I'm here. What the fuck is going on with your connection?” he laughed as a flash of Dean's scowling face appeared and disappeared. Good as Skype was, it was fucking awful for the most part.

“Stupid-” the words kept breaking off and cracking and Mickey felt a little desperate. He hated when this happened, having his dad as close as he could get just to have him still held at arms length. “-and then-”

“Dad? Just close the connection. I can call you?”

“-so we're a little tired and-” Dean kept on, Richard's affirmative hum breaking across and Mickey ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “-really pretty isn't it?”

Mickey frowned as Dean's face finally settled on the screen, beaming at him, “Your face is really pretty? Egotistical bastard.”

“Hah! Says Mister October!” his dad laughed. Mickey then realised why the screen was bad; Dean was using his phone as he was outside, the bright sky around his head bringing out his striking blue eyes.

“That was a charity calendar and shut up about it, never mention it again, like you swore before,” Mickey sighed, having argued this so many times. He eyed the clock in the corner of his laptop and chewed the inside of his cheek. Dean laughed and then Mickey heard a voice he would have never thought he'd hear Skyping his dads.

“Just tell him already? Make his day,” _Mandy._

Mickey's eyes bulged as Dean spun the camera and sure enough, there was Mandy and behind her, his own hotel. Shit.

“No fucking _way_!” Mickey cried, jumping up out of his seat and knocking the laptop across the coffee table. He pawed at it to get it back and _stared_ , stared so hard.

“Surprise, kid,” Dean said softly as Mickey felt his eyes water and his throat clog. They were outside his hotel. Downstairs, outside. In South Korea. Here. Mickey slammed his laptop shut and snatched up his phone and rapidly shrugged his coat on, swearing colourfully when the sleeves snagged, grabbed his stick, rammed the key card in his pocket and barely got a hold of the handle of his kit bag before he was hauling it out the door like a madman. Foregoing the elevators, Mickey ran down the stairs, pretty much jumping the majority of them, banging into the walls and barely avoiding tripping every time he leapt down three or four steps, his bag bashing into his back and his hockey stick at great risk of snapping with the amount of clacks into rails it suffered. Any normal day, that would really bother Mickey, but now? The stick could splinter into a billion shards and he'd give no fuck whatsoever. He felt like sixteen year old Mickey again, on the day his dad had called the school to tell him the adoption had been accepted and he was officially Dean and Richard's son. He'd ran out of the gates at the end of the day to see them both waiting in the parking lot, beaming at him, hugging the life out of him the second he was within reach. That desperate elation fuelled him now as he shoved the exit door open and scanned the lobby to see if they had maybe come inside.

“Kovich! Where's the fire, man?” Jake was sitting on the sofas, surrounded by sticks and kit bags so Mickey hurried to him, dropping his stuff with the rest.

“Dad's outside,” he breathed, making sure his stick was laid down out of the way of passing feet.

“But I thought- holy shit, Mick!” Jake grinned, “Yeah, leave it, I'll sort this... go, go on, out!” he ushered Mickey away with a shove, fixing his bag and stick as Mickey smiled his thanks and shot out of the door into the freezing air of the resort, eyeing everyone and everything he could – was everyone outside today?! - until his eyes caught waving arms and a bulky body running at him.

“No fucking way,” he whispered, very nearly squeaked, his feet moving even though he was stunned stiff. Dean was well and truly running at him, bundled up in ski clothes and snow boots and _real_. Mickey was suddenly bursting with excitement and was grinning so much his face hurt by the time Dean had caught up to him, pulling Mickey close into a crushing hug, groaning at the comfort and familiarity and Mickey laughed, stuffing his face against his dads shoulder and not caring that the fabric of the coat was freezing against his skin.

“Sorry we didn't say anything but we wanted to surprise you,” Dean chuckled, not letting up on the pressure of his embrace and Mickey's happiness turned on him; gone was the heart pounding excitement and in its place, uncontrollable, overwhelming happiness, so he was crying more than he was laughing. “Missed you so damn much, boy. _So much_. We're proud of you. So fucking proud, oh my God, you have no idea!” Dean gushed, his voice cracking with his own tears as Mickey gripped his coat and sniffled, hiding his face, absorbing the feeling of his dad. Another pair of strong arms added to the embrace and Mickey peeked up as Richard ducked his head down and pressed his cheek against Mickey's head. He was doomed to be surrounded by lovable giants, forever.

“Missed your face, kid, so bad,” his pops rumbled, the deep timbre of his voice a welcomed sound to Mickey's ears. Jesus. With all of the training before flying out to the Games, Mickey had barely seen any of his family, relying on phone calls and Skype for the most part for nigh on two months. He had known Mandy was coming, he'd help pay for her plane ticket and, as he'd been given complimentary family access tickets, he'd given them all one each even though his parents had said they probably couldn't come, it was still a nice keepsake, something for them to be proud of and frame.

“You said your holiday requests got pushed...you _lying_ shits,” Mickey blubbered, laughing as he was finally released from the rib popping hug; he couldn't stop smiling, god _damnit_ , and neither could either of his tear stained fathers.

“Now, come on, we didn't lie really,” Richard winked and Mickey scoffed. “No, I'm serious. Neither of us thought we'd be flying out at all but our bosses seemed to have grown hearts or something recently. With everything going on with these Games, the hype was mental at work and my boss came to me one afternoon last week, chirping on about how he's a massive Blackhawks fan and I had no idea, honestly, and he finds out a handful of you from the team were here; he went crazy, fan crazy over it, like 'no fucking way Richard, our boys are over there, competing for medals and shit!'. It was hysterical how much he flipped out. Anyway, I tell him I know and he's like, 'How would _you_ know? Didn't take you for a Blackhawks guy,' and I offhandedly mentioned that you're my son. Guess who his favourite player is, Mick?” Richard started laughing and Mickey shook his head fondly, soaking up the sound of Richard's voice like a paper-towel.

Dean nodded and chimed in with a grin, “So Dickie's boss was adamant he take time off to come out here and experience the hype first hand, to support 'our boys' and his ass-kicking son. He apologised about the request being pushed back but, as we know, it's nothing to do with our bosses per say, more HR. Seriously, you're gonna have to sign some shit for him or something, he pulled a lot of strings. _My_ boss overheard our conversation when pops called me on my lunch break 'cause I had him on speaker phone because I was going over some files for a first aid course I was going to be teaching that evening. Anyway, my boss was curious, asked if what Dickie had said was true, if 'the Milkovich boy' being our son was true, and, low and behold, another Hawks fan we had no idea about. He kindly suggested I take a holiday too, as soon as I was done with my courses, said HR could answer to him. As I had the last one the day after you left and Dickie had a conference the day after that, we managed to get last minute flights if we stayed over in LA, for yesterday, which is where we were when you called me. I had to quickly fake what time it was, and thankfully I hadn't changed my watch yet, but my God, it killed me to play fool with you, son. We wanted nothing more than to tell you we were literally waiting to board a plane to come here.”

Richard ran his hand over Mickey's hair and gripped the back of his neck, “See, not lying entirely. We honestly had no idea we'd be struck by such luck, _especially_ after our holiday requests had been pushed back like they had, and I'd been lugged with training conferences and dad got saddled with his FA courses and our bosses seemed like heartless dicks. If only we'd known they weren't, hey? Honestly, I'm gonna play the 'my son plays for the Blackhawks' card more often after this.”

Mickey rubbed his nose and softened his smile, “You're both here. S'all I give a shit about right now, but, I have practise. I don't want to go, but I have to.”

As if called by some deity of sport, his team made themselves known as they pushed out the hotel, cheering and laughing and chattering amongst themselves. Louie's shout of surprise was the loudest – _Zeus strike me down if my eyes do deceive me_ \- and soon he was by Mickey's side, smiling and giving Dean and Richard hugs of his own, “No way! Thought you guys couldn't come?”

“So did we, but, yeah, things change,” Dean laughed as Louie bumped Mickey with his hip, over excited as usual. “We are heading down to the arenas too, so perhaps we can buddy up when you get a break or after you're done?”

Mandy waltzed over, avoiding Mickey's accusatory glare, “I was sworn to secrecy.”

“On my shit list regardless,” Mickey grumbled, smirking despite trying to sound pissed off. His sister flipped him off and began a conversation with Seth and Jake while Mickey turned his attention back to his dad, “What you going down there for?”

“Ice skating finals, right?” Richard said and Dean bobbed his head, thumbing his bottom lip.

“We've already missed a shit load of medal winners and it'll be nice to witness one because I have _no doubt_ one of our countrymen will bag one today. Besides, we need to know where we're going for tomorrow, you know, _someone_ has a match we want to watch,” Dean tried for nonchalant but his stifled grin did nothing to help it. Nerds.

Mickey snorted and tipped his head to have them walk with him as the team started off towards the station, Jake handing Mickey his kit and stick once he could. The first memory of his morning filtered back in now his mind has stopped freaking out over the arrival of his dads, and he vividly remembered Ian saying he had his sketch today. Fuck, he hoped he won something otherwise he was a high risk for leaving early and Mickey didn't want that, he really, _really_ didn't. Who knew where Ian was going after this? They had barely thought to find out anything about one another or even think about the possibility of this little 'thing' they had going coming to some kind of end so quickly. It made Mickey feel sick with uncertainty. This thing with Ian was a great serendipity he didn't want to let go of just yet but it was very real that, yes, he might just have to after this afternoon. God, _he wished_. He wished, he wished, he wished.

“You OK there, kid?” Dean asked as the bridge came into sight now he was free of greetings and questions from the guys who knew him. Richard was deep into a conversation with Jake about tactics in the NHL and Mickey rolled his eyes. Can't take him anywhere.

“Yeah, just thinking about the match tomorrow,” he lied, trying not to rub his nose or cheek and give himself away. Dean eyed him with a nod, his eyes bright and sharp.

“If you say so,” he said, clearly not buying the lie and Mickey was thankful he didn't push it. “Hey, how'd the thing go yesterday?”

“Uh, yeah, it went well actually,” now Mickey scratched his nose and Dean frowned at the habit, taking it for nervousness or a lie again, though when Mickey hit him with a blinding smile, his dad chuckled, nudging him sideways with a scoff.

“Made me worry for a split second there, asshole. Did you enjoy yourself though? Manage to keep focused and not think too much?”

Mickey nodded along, eyeing his team as they filtered into mini groups, not one paying any attention to him and his dad, not even Louie. He was currently arguing with Seth and Mandy who appeared to be teasing the hell out of him, his arms flying, his scowl deep and ugly. Mickey snorted and winked at his dad, “Course. I kept my focus on Ian the whole time, like you said, didn't think on it all too much and he made sure I felt as comfortable as possible. I did tell him I panicked a little and he was on board, took it all in stride man, like... I can't explain this guy at all, he's a mystery to me. Hey! Get this, he didn't take me out on a date-date, just grabbed a fucking pizza each and hid by some picnic tables near a public rink. Totally chilled, completely easy and with nothing at stake, just, I dunno, enjoying time around each other? It was really nice dad, really nice.”

As Mickey smiled and lost himself a little in the memories, he clocked Dean grinning at him before hooking his arm around Mickey's neck to pull him close and poke him in the chest, “See? There's a guy for you in this shitty world, just like I told you. Who knows if this Ian is _that_ guy, but he sure as hell seems like you've got on the right path, son, away from the losers. I always told you as a kid, there's good and bad, and one day the shit will clear and good stuff will come and you'll be happy. Look, I'm a fucking giant sap but I'm really happy for you right now.”

“Thanks dork,” Mickey smiled and Dean barked a laugh.

“Don't thank me. It's all your doing, this, now. Perseverance, it pays off, even if it takes years, or days, it pays off. Hey, I gotta meet this Ian at some point. I need to scope him out, you know, big bad dad sticking his nose in even though you're like, twenty six. Fuck age, you could be in your forties, I still gotta scope the guy out, see if you got rose tinted glasses firmly in place. Might set Dickie on him... you know Rich, really goes for the jugular,” Dean laughed and moved before Mickey could swat him, middle finger up anyway. “Joking! Christ, such a tetchy madam. _Joking_!”   
  
“Why did I sign those papers again?” Mickey sassed, “No glasses this time. Never again for that matter. You'll see him later, not close up, but you'll see him.”

Dean frowned as Mickey pushed through the turnstiles and waited patiently for his parents and Mandy to figure out how to use their passes to get through. It took Mandy far too long and she ended up embarrassed when one of the guards came to help. “What do you mean? Is he a competitor too?” Dean asked, watching Richard for a second as he took his daughter off to scour the time boards with narrowed eyes.

“She not tell you?” Mickey nodded at Mandy and Dean shook his head. This was going to be amusing to watch as Dean reacted far more vibrantly than Mandy ever did. “All right. So, I met him the first day here, only in a basic way, helped him check in and shit 'cause his receptionist couldn't, or wouldn't, recognise his speech or whatever. He flirts, I kind of do, I leave. I find out from Lou rabbiting on about the redhead I'd caught the eye of, that he was Gallagher. You know? The US figure skater?”

“Fuck. Off. _Lies_!” Dean gaped and Mickey tipped his head, flashing his brows up and tonguing his lip like _yeah, I know right_. “Jesus,” he breathed, starting to grin, “Jesus, Mickey. Oh, _wow_. Your dad is going to flip a damn table over this, hah! I'm trying _so_ hard to keep this feeling contained 'cause like fuck am I going to be able to control myself if I let it out, Mick, I swear to God you haven't experienced parental embarrassment the likes of which will be upended on you in a second. Oh my god, _Mickey_.”

“Yep,” Mickey popped the 'p' and turned when his name was yelled, thankful for it even though he hated leaving his dad, but like hell was he going to stick around long enough for Dean to explode. He'd had his fair share of dad embarrassment over the years and it was awful; he had no desire to have the holy grail dropped on him on a train platform for his entire squad to see. “Gotta go. You'll see him compete today, right? If uh, I can't get in there and see the late set, 'cause he should have done his short one already, let me know what happens, yeah?”

“Of course, Mick. We're getting the next train, public and all that, so, see you later?” Dean smiled, hooking Mickey for another rib breaker of a hug, Richard running over to hit him with his own and a kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah, love you guys. Bye, fuckface!” he shouted to Mandy who smiled and flipped him off again, waving the finger.

“Be nice to her!” Richard mock scolded, chuckling deeply as Mickey rolled his eyes and made to board his carriage, hearing Dean laughing – _Oh baby_ , _have I got something to tell you!_ \- as he wrapped his arm around Richard's shoulders, pulling him down as they laughed. Richard was tall and board and Dean not much shorter, no less built, but it always amused Mickey to see Dean yank his pops down like a kid. Maybe that's how he looked with Ian from the back?

 

“Hey Mick? Brunch?” Bart asked, motioning for him to sit at his table, Louie already there with his face buried in his phone.

“They already been through?” Mickey asked as he settled in and Bart nodded, getting up.

“Yeah, I'll go tag on something for you.”

“Thanks man,” Mickey turned as Bart wandered off, the train lurching into its high speed fly along the tracks, “What're you so stuck in?”

“Look at this,” Louie beamed, hitting play on a video he'd pulled up using the WiFi. Mickey blinked, rolling his eyes to focus, settling against Louie's board chest as he looped his arms around his neck to hold the screen for them both to watch. It was Ian doing his short program. Holy shit was he nailing it, flying and jumping and twirling like he was made of ribbon, smiling when the crowd cheered louder and louder the more he threw himself into it. He finished it quickly, only allowed a short time frame to complete his set, nothing overly fancy, but fascinatingly brilliant all the same, and Mickey found himself smiling like an idiot as Ian bowed and waved, blowing out kisses as he skated off the ice. It was perfect, executed well from what Mickey could see of the muted video, but, as Ian left the rink, he stumbled and fell. The video cut off and Mickey sat up, turning to land his worried stare on Louie who looked just as unsettled.

“The fuck was that?”

Louie swallowed and let Mickey moved back into his seat, “Uh, looked like he tripped a little there. Must have caught a flower or teddy or something. They threw a fucking load on the rink so, all suggests it was one of those?” Louie tried to keep his voice steady but Mickey could hear the fear. The last thing they had seen was Ian face planting the wall, and maybe if he'd been more Mickey's height, just those few inches shorter, he'd have just thumped himself off the ice a bit hard. No, he hit the wall. Face first.

“Oh shit,” Mickey panicked, hands inching towards his hair. “What the- Lou! What _the hell_ does this even mean?”

Louie shrugged, pocketing his phone like it was evil, “I don't know, bro. It could mean nothing. I mean, he finished his program so he's fine there, but without the other one, he's out of the medals. But, if he's not that hurt, he'll skate once the doctor gives him an OK. All depends on the damage, Mick. I really don't fucking know, stop looking at me like I punched him and not that damn wall, jeez.”

“Sorry, sorry, it's not- shit, man, the fuck do I do?!” Mickey hissed, his mind filling up with the possibility of Ian not skating, of Ian not winning anything, of Ian upset and heartbroken, of Ian with black eyes and a busted face, of Ian leaving.

“Call him or something?” Louie suggested and pulled a pained grimace when Mickey shook his head, sucking his lip in with a grunted sound of _no_.

“Last time he did anything associated with an event his coach made them all leave their phones behind. Fuck,” Mickey's body flashed hot and cold all over, his worry escalating to levels he couldn't hold it back from. He was more worried about Ian's injury, how he was, more than anything in that moment. If he was hurt, Mickey couldn't fix that and he wanted so desperately to be there, touching him, making sure Ian was all right. What if he'd broken his nose? Or knocked it back far enough to- or cracked his neck? Broke his jaw? Mickey's brain ran away with itself, telling him Ian was in a state, being taken to a hospital, away from Mickey. Mickey realised he was having a panic attack in a carriage fit to burst with his entire team. That it was over nothing but fears born from how much he'd come to like having Ian around, how much he cared for the guy, meant fuck all. _Shit_. The attack was swallowing him whole and he felt his head go light.

“Mickey? Mickey calm down man, deep breaths,” Bart appeared in front of him, slapping the table to get Mickey's attention but it was hard for him to tear his watering eyes from the floor of the aisle, staring blankly passed repeated images of Ian hitting that fucking wall. His ears screamed and his heart hurt as it banged in his chest and throat.

“Mickey!” Louie barked, making a lot of noise and yelling at someone until he was kneeling in the aisle, right in Mickey's eyeline, taking his sweating, shaking hands in his big warm ones, holding tightly to ground Mickey. Had he climbed over the table _and_ Bart? Bart shot out of his seat as Louie mumbled something, not taking his eyes off Mickey's once he had them on him. “Breathe, hm? Watch me, right here. Are you looking?”

“Jake?” someone called though Mickey only stared at Louie, watching him exaggerate his deep breathing with a rolling hand, nodding as Mickey copied slowly. Jesus Christ he was drowning, everything narrowing down to Louie, all other noise dull and void. He was aware of his pockets getting pilfered by someone's shaking hands as he centred on Louie's soft smile, his praise as he followed his rhythm, his chatter although he hear no words, just the tones. Even as a phone was handed to him by Jake – his tattooed hand was easily spotted - Louie didn't blink or tear his gaze away, talking quickly. This one had Mickey in a choke hold, fucking with his head, rendering him empty and absent as Louie pressed the phone against Mickey's ear for someone to hold while he kept the breathing going, nodding to Mickey lightly as he kept up him mimicking, squeezing his fingers every other one to keep him grounded.

“...your breath, make a wish, count to three. Come with me, and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination. Take a look and you'll see into your imagination. You will know, what you see, is absolute, brutal trickery. Vibrantly, you will see, that all of this is forgery,” Dean's singing voice wafted into his head space, the words he made up as he went to cement to Mickey that whatever he was seeing, whatever it was that was trying to pull him down, was all an illusion of fear and worry. He'd done it so many times since he'd first had Mickey that the damn song had stuck, even with Dean and Richard's alterations, it never failed to calm Mickey down. Dean kept singing while Mickey followed Louie's deep breathing and by the time Dean started up again from the beginning, the sweating had stopped, the white noise had left and his heart was beating angrily, but no where near as harsh as it had been.

“M'OK now,” Mickey mumbled, still following Louie anyway, just for a minute or two more. Whoever was holding his phone took it away and chatted to Dean, reassurances and casual chit-chat until Mickey wanted the phone. “Tell him I'll call him after?” It wasn't mandatory Mickey talk to either of his dads after an attack, especially if he'd not called them, so he knew Dean wouldn't mind and knew he was in safe hands. It was like taking an accidental knock in training from one of his guys; they'd grab him, steady him, like he would them, _you good?_ And with a sure _yes_ , they'd be off again.

“Here,” Bart pushed a cup of lukewarm water into Mickey's hand and slid back into his spot as Mickey drank the sugared water. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, letting go on Louie's stare to shuffle and hide in the window seat. Nobody said a word about what they'd just seen, and Mickey was thankful for that, but it didn't make him feel any less humiliated by his own stupid mind. “Combination of no breakfast and a shock I think,” he muttered as Louie sat next to him, digging in his bag, appearing unphased and like nothing had happened. Mickey didn't want to explain he'd been so vigorously fucked at four in the morning that he'd used up his resources, and had forgotten to eat anything during his routine of washing, dressing, packing and Skyping.

“So eat now,” Louie smiled, curling his finger for the hostess to come closer and put down a tray full of snacks for them; fruit, toasts, bacon and eggs, pancakes, little sandwiches and buns, orange juice and coffee. Mickey tucked in quickly as the rest of the carriage got theirs, his unease washing away with every new mouthful of OJ. Louie dipped close as he spread something fruity on a toasted bun, “He'll be fine. He's a tough fucker.”

 

 

Disallowing his mind to fuck him over again, Mickey threw himself deep into training, skating with determination like he hadn't had yet. He was on the mark nine times out of ten, barely stopping his movements and completely focused on the puck. His mind was all hockey, hockey, hockey. Thompson had been hovering in the train without Mickey really knowing he was there, had seen his panic, and yet, he'd not said a word about it, he'd not pulled Mickey off to the bench, not babied him at all, if anything, he'd pushed him really hard for the most part, so much so that Mickey had benched himself twice just to _breathe_.

“I want a block ladies. Milkovich, Hollander, on your guard. Baker, I want you to take a shot at Oliver. If you're successful, you keep fucking going until they have you smashed into the floor! If you block him first time, you guys can go for your break,” Thompson danced along the wall, waving his arms to get the other players to move out of the way, faking game play by skating around one another to give Shaun a clear run. Mickey nodded and readjusted his gumshield, bracing himself as Milo did the same a few feet to his left. Baker tapped the ice with his stick to indicate his was starting and shot off around everyone else, trying to lose the hawk-eyed focus both Mickey and Milo had on him, but it wasn't really to much use as they were both hard-core defenders and were more than ready to take him - Shaun was opposition, he was going _down_.

“Follow your lead,” Milo nodded and Mickey winked. As soon as Shaun got to his peak speed, he gunned over the centre line and Mickey lurched forward with a yell, Milo kicking sharp to charge from the left in a solid line. As the puck and Shaun sailed over the blue line, Mickey stuck his stick out and sent the black disc flying off to the right for Isaacs to keep an eye on, nowhere close to his baby, while Mickey braced and forced what strength he had in his body out through his arms and chest as Shaun barrelled into him, planting his blades with a grunt so he didn't move too far. Milo collided with Baker harder as he had momentum on his side and took their team mate down to the ice, moving to roll off of him and away as soon as he had him on his back.

“Yes! Yes, yes, _yes_! I think I just pissed myself a little bit. You fucking beauties! Get out of here, go eat some shitty sandwiches, smoke packets and be fucking proud of yourself today. You've really stepped up in the face of tomorrow's game. Good show, ladies, good _fucking_ show!” Thompson being this happy had them all smiling and laughing, shaking their heads as he cheered and punched the air. Mickey and Milo helped haul Shaun up off the floor, checking him over quickly to make sure they hadn't done too much damage, but the bulky fucker assured them he had felt like two flies had slapped him with feathers.

“Oh yeah? Guess who's on my radar after lunch,” Mickey flashed his eyes and cheekily grinned as he skated off, Milo nodding along with his threat while Shaun hissed something under his breath. Louie flew over, catching Mickey before he get out of the gate, hooking his arm tight. “What?”

“Think we have time?” He rushed, looking a little harried. Mickey glanced up at the huge board that usually lit up the scores, the clock glowing red in the middle. Oh, hell.

“Did you find out what time they were actually going on or?” Mickey asked and Louie shook his head, pulling his mouth into a thin line.

“Nah, not the exact time. The long programs started about twenty, thirty minutes ago maybe? Look, depending on where he placed in the first round will decide when he goes on. If he placed first or second, he's done, but if he placed third, he'll be going on now, or actually doing it as we speak. Any lower and we might catch him if we like, run. Now.”

“What's this?” Milo asked as Mickey started to get his feet moving, intent on getting out the gate. Fuck who was in front of him, he needed out.

“Someone I know is skating in the finals,” Mickey said, growling at Jake when he wouldn't move.

“This the someone who has been putting that smile on your face?” Jake asked, scowling as Mickey shoved him from behind, “OK, _Jesus_ , I'm going as fast as I fucking can, Mick. Yo, Seth, I got a rabid Milkovich on my ass. Haul it!”

“Oh my God!” Oliver gasped, “I knew you looked a little too soft with that skater boy. Is he your crush?”

“Oh for fuck sake,” Mickey groaned. Not like he could deny anything now with how desperately he was trying to get the guards back on his blades, and the fact that every single man on his team has seen the aftermath of his knock out with Ian. So they had took him under wing as a honorary brother, maybe passing off their little hand holding thing as an in-moment kind of deal, but now, with Mickey behaving how he was and Jake's offhanded comment – they weren't dumb. Mickey was surprised he'd managed to go this long without any of the guys not close to him working it out.

“Is he then?” David asked once in the changing room, all of them matching Mickey's feverish disrobing.

Mickey stood straight and took a deep breath as he pulled off his jersey, “Yeah, OK, might as well fucking, I dunno, officiate this shit right now. He's the guy I've been, uh, seeing? Dating? I don't know what the hell to call what it is we're doing, but yeah, he's the reason for my fucking smile. Happy now?” Mickey wasn't ready for the cheers and yells of happiness from any of them, let alone Louie who _knew_ from day one Christ's sake. He smiled goofily as he straightened out his clothes and yanked on his Nike's, tucking the laces in the sides to speed up a little, took his coat and switched on his phone, waiting for it to come on as he zipped up. When the screen was on, he looked up to say a quick bye but found the entire squad standing around, waiting for him, all coated and curious. “What?”

“Lead the way, boss. He's _definitely_ our boy now,” Bart grinned and Mickey groaned. God save him.

“Jesus fucking hell,” Mickey breathed, out of the locker room with every one of them following like puppies, quiet excitement rolling off of each one of them, and as much as Mickey wanted to feel like this way all too over the top, it really wasn't. It was warming him through, his friends blatant support, as they jogged over to the arena housing Ian and all of the other male skaters, thankful the staff recognised their kit and waved which way to go up into the top seating blocks. Louie had said they'd not get special treatment on event days, but he didn't mind, not for the time being at least, because if he could see Ian competing then his fears could go and die somewhere and he might have a fighting chance at hiding the entire US hockey team from the cameras.

To his dismay as they got through the doors, Ian wasn't on the ice but his bright hair was easy to spot on the sidelines. The fact that was wearing an all black outfit with half his face masked and his US jacket on suggested he had either done his set, or he was about to. The girls skating around collecting teddies and flowers had a job of it from what Mickey could make out from this high up and he found his sight drawn from the mess to the giant screens, shots of Ian in slow-motion doing certain jumps with commentary over the top that Mickey could barely hear over the buzz of thousands of voices chatting away.

“Did we miss him?” Louie asked and Mickey gave a sad nod.

“Seems so.”

“Hey, bro, the fact that he is down there and up there on that screen is a fucking great thing, right? He did his routine! He's upright and alive and he did his sketch man,” Louie nudged his shoulder and Mickey cracked his face into a huge smile, watching on-screen Ian do that quad-triple-triple flawlessly, the splits, a dance of some kind, fluid and pristine although slow-motion did make everything look kind of ethereal. What confused Mickey more than anything was when Ian took off his jacket and moved in the light, his suit was navy blue as it caught a particularly bright beam of the spotlight. Then he appeared to be taking off his guards, chatting to Svetlana and looking at the rink.

“He's not...wearing black? I don't...” he mumbled, flashing between watching Ian moved to the gate and to the screen. “Oh shit, we didn't miss him. That's from earlier!” Mickey fought to contain himself as he smacked his hand to Louie's arm and gripped it like a lifeline, settling into a seat finally. The rest of his team were low key watching the rink, curious and excited and ignoring anyone who seemed to recognise them. Nobody said anything though as all focus was on the rink.

“Skating his long program for The United States of America, please welcome to centre ice, Ian Gallagher,” boomed over the system and an enormous cheer went up, drowning out the other languages that followed to explain who this skater was. There was no need, they all knew who he was without a doubt.

“Oh, I am so happy he's back out there, honey. Oh, I did worry!” said a woman in front of them, gushing to her husband. He hummed and she carried on, Mickey listening in as the volume dropped dramatically, “Supposed to come out second but you know, he did bash his pretty, pretty face. Oh, I am pleased. I am, Steven, I am so pleased!”

“Shush Betty. I saw it all earlier!”

“Oh, you brute,” she giggled and Mickey smiled. So Ian should have come out earlier in second? Mickey's heart swelled with pride. Second place. The Power of Love started up and Ian began moving, the routine exactly the same as the one Mickey and Louie had sat in on, and though he couldn't actually see very well from up where he was, Mickey didn't take his eyes away for a second, not even to glance at the screens. Louie, once again, was on his damn knees, gnawing at his knuckles as he watched. A shudder ran through his body as the music sped a little and Ian began jumping, landing with cheers, a few moves thrown in that Mickey didn't really recognise but then, it was his long program, he had certain elements to keep and more time to mess with as an instrumental section played in between verses.

As Ian ducked into his spins, speeding up into a blue blur, the arena grew louder and louder with every element he added; whether it was a flare of his hands, a leg up or out, extra speed or slowing down to kick off again, they screamed and clapped and cheered until the music was but a dull sound and Ian completely enthralling them. Mickey felt his eyes sting a little and was out of his seat cheering with them as Ian drew for his finish, the guys up with him, using their fingers to whistle loud, Louie wiping his cheeks furiously as he tried to clap as hard as he could.

“That's our boy!” shouted Milo.

Jake whistled, “You beauty, Gallagher!”

“Medal for the boy in red, white and blue!” screamed Shaun, an echo going up around them from anyone who agreed.

“S'a fucking goddamn dream, man!” Louie yelled, ignoring any scowls he might have gotten for his language. Mickey agreed with a yell, whistling along as Ian took a bow and blew out kisses. One screen, Mickey could see his emotion, his mouth tugging through a smile as he fought not to cry, waving and saying _thank you_. He had the majority of his face covered by a lace mask, and the eye that was visible was purpling, heavily covered by make-up and black lines and swirls, but he was still smiling. He looked so fucking happy with himself that Mickey wanted to run down the stairs, jump the barriers and the wall and hug the life out of him, kiss him all over his lacy face and profess how proud he was.

Then, as Ian took his seat to wait out his score, the screens lit up with him in all his glory, fast and slow shots, he body tucked in tight for his jumps, his face bright during the splits he'd added and his concentration apparent as he kept his face impassive, portraying the pain he should be feeling as he told the story with his body as his face had been covered. He was beautiful to Mickey.

He was so enthralled by Ian in high definition that, when the arena roared with applause and cheers, Mickey all but yelled in fright, completely caught off guard. There, up on the screen, was Ian, tucking his face into his hands to cover himself as he cried – even though he had come out fourth, and there were others to skate yet but those had been ranked lower for a reason already, he was ranked first. Fucking _first_. Mickey laughed, a bubbly, wet laugh as Louie howled and the rest of the team yelled, jumping up and down. Louie and Jake being the closest wrapped Mickey in a hug from either side.

“Jesus fuck, Mick! _Mick_!” Louie grinned and Mickey could only nod otherwise he was going to cry. Jesus, he was so damn proud of Ian, so happy for him. He'd put so much into his sport and he had the possibility of a medal. His score was high from what Mickey could tell, and he hoped it was high enough not to get much of a threat. He watched dumbly as Ian unfurled his fingers and waved at the cameras, up at the screaming audience, shaking hands with the skater he'd knocked off the top spot, and then into the camera again, a warm smile curling his lips up. Mickey knew that smile. That was a secret smile, one he could see through for what it was. There was no way Ian could know he was up in the stands, but Mickey sure as hell felt like he did, or he knew Mickey would see the footage later.

“God, I wanna kiss the shit out of him right now,” Jake joked, “If I wanna do that, fuck knows how you feel. Man, _Jesus_ , what a pro! Guys? What a champ, right?”

“ _Hell yeah_!”

“Oh shit, we gotta get back boys. Sorry Mick,” Bart winced as the noise level died down and Mickey sighed, tearing his wet gaze from the screen where he'd been drinking in the sight of Ian's doe eyes – even the one covered with black lace – twinkling and his bright red, emotionally bitten lips curving up constantly.

“I got to see him, so,” he shrugged, turning to follow Louie out of the line of seats and towards the doors, lingering for a moment to look at mini Ian down by the rink. He put his hand up in a wave, wondering if Ian could actually see him, getting bumped by his team as they left the arena with happy chatter. As he turned, Ian's arm lifted in a wave and Mickey frowned, waiting for him to put his hand down before he gave another wave and, sure enough, and shocking the utter shit out of him, Ian waved back and blew him a kiss. It was caught by the camera on him, from a low angle, and Mickey's face split with the force of the smile he grew.

As he left, catching up to his team all gushing about the wondrous sight they had just witnessed, Mickey had a suspicious feeling that he _might_ just be falling in love with that firecracker. How else could he explain the feelings he got when he saw Ian? Or when he worried he was hurt, or wondered how he was feeling, or just how much his heart jumped seeing the guy smile let alone what he made Mickey feel when he was bent on making Mickey implode from pleasure? Ian had well and truly danced his twinkle-toed boots all over Mickey's soul and there was very little Mickey could do about it except embrace the star-filled footprints and hope to fuck he left his own before either one of them had to say goodbye.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........... um.
> 
> I toyed with this ending so much, i was gonna leave you on a cliffhanger but i thought no, don't be mean. I did what i wanted, so, fuck it, i'm happy :) I love my boys!! MOO NEEDS HAPPINESS! 
> 
> MWAH! <3 xx


	12. Silver Bruiser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey learns the outcome of Ian's event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I am, once again, here to upload feels of wonder after the shitty feels this new arsing episode has dropped. OK, so, you're gonna need a cavity check after this. It might seem short, but i assure you, it's 11 PAGES LONG. I had to stop otherwise i'd end up with way too much and it's not a good idea to have massive chapters, then short ones, i gotta keep some kind of conformity going. Each so far as been roughly 10-12 pages, so... I am working on cp. 13 already ;) ENJOY!!! it's silly ehehe

 

As he left the hockey arena with his team, all of them thoroughly exhausted and aching in a way that had them all lazily grinning through the pain, enjoying the burn, Mickey was set upon by Mandy. He'd barely stepped ten feet from the main doors when she hit him from behind, making him drop his bag and stick in shock as she leapt onto his back, squealing with her arms tight against his throat.

“Ack, fuck, Mandy!” he croaked, instinctively reaching back to hold under her ass to keep her from falling off even though he wanted nothing more than to dump her on the floor. He spun when she pulled her arms and pressed his throat harder, turning him like a horse to see their dads wandering over with shaking heads, fond smiles warring with concerned scowls. Thank God there were events going on in all three arenas as that meant very little public, very little chance of being seen gagging and stumbling like a drunkard with a giant parasite on his back. Fucking Siblings. Mandy dug her heels into his thighs and Mickey yelled.

“Now, how many times have we told you over the years that we do not attempt to murder family members?” Richard clicked his tongue and squinted at Mandy with one eye, the other open wide under a very high eyebrow. Mickey tapped her arms when she tried to press just that side of oxygen deprivation and she chuckled darkly, rocketing off his back and out of the reach of his swings.

“The fuck was that for?” he growled, spitting on the ground to ward off the hacking cough. His team gathered and leant on their sticks, sneering at Mandy when she landed them all with her own hateful sneer. They all dissolved into giggles and smiles once the cough broke free and Mickey doubled over, swearing at the tarmac with all the venom he could muster.

“Hey, assface, did you see him?” Mandy asked, leaning against Bart with an arm bent up on his shoulder. Milo got a punch in the ribs as he attempted to put his on her head to show off how short she was compared.

“Yes, but like fuck would it warrant a strangulation _if_ I hadn't, you dick. I'll drop your ass next time,” Mickey spat, trying to keep more hacking down. If he glanced at the skaters arena with glaringly obvious curiosity written all over him, then none of them made to comment or tease him.

“We all went to watch in our break,” Bart supplied, bumping his shoulder up repeatedly to shake her off but Mandy wasn't to be moved. She eyed them all and gave them an approving look.

“Well, I needn't babble on about how fucking amazing he was then,” she said casually, smirking when they all began chirping on about Ian and his skills, starting up a gaggle of chatter that turned into a game of _who would win in a skate off_ , Gallagher VS whoever the hell they could think of.

“Hey, kid,” Dean pulled Mickey to one side as Louie started a heated debate between Mandy, Richard and the entire team about Ian against Plushenko. Mickey was glad he wasn't in on it because _how the fuck do you choose?!_ “I take it you saw him rank first then?” Dean nudged Mickey with his shoulder and turned into the _fucking sun_ as Mickey's face broke into a soul-tingling smile while the memory hit him in the chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was... he was _something_ ,” Mickey coughed, trying to calm his face down as he spoke softly to his dad, who wasn't even beginning to attempt to keep his face under control at all. _Jesus H, mercy._

Dean flashed his eyebrows up, “Look at you, all pink and mushy like a little boy. Oh my God, it's freaking adorable!”

“Shut the hell up, asshole,” Mickey shoved his dad hard and snorted as Dean spun out of it and hopped back, not in least bothered, if anything, he was worse. “Please, fucking chill out would you?”

“Embarrassing you yet?”

Mickey nodded, licking his cheek, “Yah, just a touch. _Jesus_.”

Dean crowed and side stepped Mickey's shin seeking kick, “Hah, then my job is not yet done! Here, I have a piece of information that may just break your face, possibly your entire composure, which I shall have to record on Snapchat so, hold on a second-”

Mickey groaned and tipped backwards as Dean fished out his phone, staring at the sky with accusation heavy in his gaze, “Jesus wept, I'm gonna stick you on the next plane back, swear to God, dad. Swearing so hard. Fucking Snapchat...”

“So, have you heard who won the match this morning?” Dean asked absently as he set about opening up the app. Mickey edged away slowly but Dean dogged his steps without even looking up. This obviously wasn't what Dean was hoping for him to react to as he barely looked up as Mickey mumbled _Russia_. “Isn't it Canada against Great Britain right now?”

“Yeah. Kinda goes with saying who will win it,” Mickey rolled his eyes as Dean grinned and cheered a little, fist pumping as he lifted the phone to record Mickey's scowling face.

“Who do you think you'll play tomorrow?” Dean wondered as he frowned and fidgeted the phone in his grip.

“Hopefully not fucking Canada. Probably Finland or Germany 'cause they played early on like us so they won't be as tired. Also goes on winning points- what the hell do you need this shit for when we're talking hockey here?” Mickey exhaled heavily through his nose and glanced at his team still heavily debating skaters while Mandy stood off to the side, smoking, with a young woman and an older man who Mickey distinctively remembered – he was pretty sure they were Roberts twin sister and his dad, but then again, they could be any family member of any of the other guys he didn't know past team activities, but he recognised them. He felt proud of that if anything, his memory was shockingly bad most of the time.

“So, Mickey, my scowling son,” Dean pulled his attention back before his concentration frown creeped the poor girl out. He turned and sucked the inside of his cheek when he had the phone camera glaring at him, eyeing his dad like he was holding up a tarantula. “So, you saw Gallagher place first with, I think, ten... was it ten? Might have been twelve thinking on it. Or nine? No, there's always a bus load of skaters so maybe it was near twenty or-”

“ _Dad_.”

“Jesus, boy, just trying to work out how many other goddamn skaters competed. Adds to the flair,” Dean grouched to which Mickey hissed _Jesus fucking hell save me_ under his breath. “So, he had a shit ton of competition and we watched them _all_. I tell you now Mick, I was scared he was going to place like, last or some shit, some of those guys were, just, I can't even begin. Oh my gosh, just, oh my God. But he sat there, smiling and clapping and egging them on like a proper gentleman, not giving an outward fuck if they threatened his position or not. He's _so_ darn nice. _Anyway_! Guess where he finally placed by the last set?”

Mickey's gut dropped and he blinked, the anticipation burning through him as his eyebrow prompts did fuck all to get his dad to spill the beans, “Please, stop fan-girling and just fucking tell me?”

Dean narrowed his eyes and hit the record button, Snapchat beeping as he said, “He finished in second place.”

Mickey stared, his entire body falling blank for the ten seconds of video and Dean dropped his hand, frowning at his son with mild concern. “Say that again,” Mickey mumbled, his brain a little numb with an overload of complete and utter elation. Ian had...

“He finished second. He's won a silver med-”

“ _Holy_ shit!” Mickey yelled, turning tail and jumping like a gazelle into the ring of his team, screaming out the loudest _ahhhh_ he could muster, face aching with the smile he had until he stopped yelling and began laughing, grabbing sleeves and yanking, punching arms and going ballistic with pride and joy while his team stared at him.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind, Kovich?” Jake chuckled, watching Mickey jump a few more times before he collected himself and took a deep breath, spreading his hands as he turned to Louie.

“You all right there, Mick?” Bart asked, amused but also very wary.

“Bro, what the fuck?” Louie laughed, frowning and shaking his head. Mickey could grant him confusion, as this was not typical Milkovich behaviour. Richard had moved himself out of the cluster of players and stood with his arm around Dean's shoulder as his husband videoed, both grinning because they knew what was about to go down.

“Guess who only went and won a fucking _silver_ Olympic medal?!” he grinned, barely able to contain the waver in his voice from the manic laugh trying to get out. Louie gaped at him for all of two seconds before he glanced at the skating arena and, with Mickey's quick nodding, the entire team erupted with a roar, bags and sticks clacking to the ground as they dived on Mickey and completely lost their shit.

“Holy fucking chimichanga, bro, he won a fucking medal! _He won a medal_!” yelled Louie, gripping Mickey by the back of his neck to kiss him hard, laughing as the rest of the guys dove in to ruffle his hair, kiss his face, punch him, rag him around like he'd won the damn thing. Mickey had never felt so excited for someone else in his life – he'd never really had the chance, nothing in his family's life had ever been this grandeur.

“Are you proud of your beau?” cried Seth, knocking their heads together.

“Am I fucking proud of him?” Mickey asked with heavy sarcasm, “Stupid fucking question, Donaheugh, of course I'm proud of him. I'm fucking _buzzing_!” he cried to which he got a round of cheers and yells and more ragging about. Ian could have finished in the top ten and he'd have been as happy for him. Hell, even last for fuck sake; he had competed in the Winter Olympics and finished and no matter the place, Mickey would have been happy and proud for the guy but he knew that placing in the top five, let alone a medal position, would be Ian's dream finish. A medal, of any colour, was _huge_. Mickey felt like he was going to burst.

“Mickey's silver skater!”

“He's a goddamn _king_!”

“S'our boy!”

“Might be ours, but first and foremost,” Bart crowed loudly, “He's _Mickey's_ boy! He's Mickey's fucking fire boy!”

“Hey, where is he though? We need to be unleashing this on the kid,” Shaun called out and everyone started to calm down quickly, looking everywhere like Ian would pop out from behind something. Mickey shrugged and looked at his chuckling dads for answers.

“Still inside. The medal ceremony is in about ten minutes as they are the only group skating for the finish today. The reason we came outside was to see if you could come and watch it,” Richard winked, setting the group off again.

“Yes! Yes we fucking can!” someone sounded ecstatic.

Oliver frowned and called for quiet, “What about coach?”

“What about me?” Thompson wondered, appearing from behind them. He'd gone ahead to the station to sort out provisions for the morning trek, wanting his boys filled with protein ahead of their fight. “The hell is all this damn noise for, eh? All I could hear from over there was y'all screaming like you'd won the damn lottery or some shit.”

Bart looked to Mickey and he gave a nod, “You know the guy who pulled Mickey's tongue outta his head?”

Thompson hummed and folded his arms, “Yeah, but what's he got to do with you lot freakin' the hell out? You should be boarding a train by now, might I add.”

“Yeah, sorry coach,” Mickey tried to look sheepish, he really did, but his smile wasn't listening. “He's uh... we just found out that he competed today and he secured himself second place, got a silver medal, coach.” They had all agreed not to tell him about their sneaking-in to watch Ian instead of eating shit food and resting up. It wasn't like they'd suffered overly for the lack of respite during the resuming practice, but still, it was better than the ass whooping they'd have gotten if Thompson had been told they'd skipped lunch for figure skating.

Thompson raised an eyebrow and loosened his arms in surprise, “Well blow me down! That is something to fuckin' wail over! Three cheers for the red, white and blue, ladies!” he cried, _hip-hip-hooray_ erupting loudly from the players and their relatives. “Where is he? He should be here to receive this mad rush of congratulatory noise. I'm surprised he isn't actually in this mass with how fucking mental you lot went. Christ.”

“Uh, inside. The medals are being handed out very soon,” Dean piped up and Mickey chuckled when Thompson spun to stare at his dad, eyebrows high and a great smile on his face.

“Well fuck me sideways in a shed, if it isn't Mr Mowce and his lovely spouse! Mickey, you didn't tell me they had come out,” Thompson was quick to hug the men tight with plenty of back pounding. “Fuck, yes, I realise my pun. Was not intended.”

“Nice to see you Joe,” Richard chuckled as Dean pocketed his phone, finally, winding his arm around his husband's waist. Mickey warmed at the sight, giving them a smile so soft he was sure he probably looked like an entirely different person.

“Likewise! We need to go for a goddamn beer, I need adult conversation,” their coach gave a warning look to anyone who tried to call him on that. “So, he's inside?”

Dean hummed and gave a nod, sucking in his bottom lip, “Yeah, waiting to be decorated.”

Thompson _ahh'ed_ and turned to Mickey with a calculated look, glancing at his team who looked poised to run for the doors as soon as he gave the command. “So why are you all out here then?”

“We had a train to catch?” Milo offered and Thompson scoffed.

“Fuck the train. If one of you idiots had thought to come and find me or call me and tell me what the delay was, you'd been inside already! One of our own won a medal and we happen to be here in time to see him get given the thing? Haul ass inside, boys! Let's go show Mickey's boy who has his back, eh?” the cheer that went up didn't drown out the wink and knowing smile Thompson threw at Mickey, not even getting jostled and dragged along for the run dampened Mickey's surprise.

“Who told him?” Mickey asked Louie as they got directed into the stands, lower and closer to the rink courtesy of Thompson and his ID pass and coach status. The arena was still jam packed and heaving while the ice was polished and covered with a felt carpet walkway, the podium being dragged out as soon as the polisher was shut off.

“Nobody, bro. I definitely didn't and you only really confirmed it earlier. The motherfucker knows _everything_ , like he's Santa Claus, so he probably knew from day one. Wouldn't surprise me,” Louie looked off over the ice and gripped Mickey's forearm in a vice tight squeeze of fingers, nodding at the far end where, when Mickey looked, was a head of red hair dressed neatly in a USA tracksuit, not his regular one-colour one either, this one was purely to show off which country he came from. They all had one locked in their closets if they should also happen to win anything. It was _psychedelic_.

“Does he know you're in here?” Richard asked next to Mickey's ear and had him jolting a little as he had been caught up in admiring Ian accepting handshakes and chatting with what looked to be every skater in the building.

“Yeah 'cause he has a sixth sense, maybe a tracking device. No, dad, I should think he doesn't. Saw me earlier though, I think,” Mickey smiled up at his pops and scrunched up his face when Richard laughed and scruffed up his hair further.

Richard eyed him suspiciously before speaking right into his sons ear, “You wouldn't know anything about that kiss he blew into the crowd, would you? It was caught on camera and I guess you could pass it off as an all rounder, to the entire arena, but the look on his face... nah, I didn't buy it. That was for an individual, not a crowd. Know anything about that? I think you do-”

“Can it, jackass,” Mickey smirked, feeling his face go hot as Richard stepped back with a laugh, dragging Dean to him with a hand on his wrist, nodding at Mickey and claiming victory.

“Take a seat, boys,” Thompson called, waving at a load of free seats near to the rink, right by the wall with a perfect view. Not like they'd stay in those seats once Ian got the ribbon around his neck; Mickey knew they'd all go crazy again. He could feel it bubbling in his stomach and chest and Louie was barely able to stop bouncing his steps or knee once he'd dropped into a chair. The rest of the guys were grinning.

“Don't cry like a baby,” Mandy teased, leaning over from the seat behind Mickey.

“Fuck off, you'll weep like you did to Dumbo,” Mickey snorted, hissing when she tugged the short hairs on his nape. “Bitch.”

“What did I fucking tell you outside? Jesus H, have mercy, you're adults for goodness sake!” Richard snapped over his shoulder, rubbing his temples to ward off the Milkovich Migraine. “Mikhaylo, you should be aware of damn cameras, you know, uphold the image of a perfect team from Uncle Sam would you? Twenty six! Don't make me a, kick your ass, and b, embarrass the every loving hell out of you. Oh, and c, not a direct threat but remember this; I _will_ meet this Gallagher at some point.”

Dean sniggered as Mickey turned to pin Richard with a _you fucking what?_ Look while Richard merely sucked in his lip, bit it and rose his eyebrows, the look a well known one by Mickey. It was a clear, _did I stutter? you heard me_. “Oh ho ho _ho_ ,” Dean chuckled, shaking his head and looking up at the roof.

Mickey rolled his eyes and leant forward on his knees to watch the podium being pieced together, adorned with fancy ribbons and numbered plaques. Louie turned from his _I'm not ear-wigging, I really am but I'm covering that by pretending to be deep in conversation_ with David and Jake, nudging Mickey with a smile, “You good, man?”

“Yeah, Lou,” Mickey replied softly, trying to keep the fucking smile down, but goddamnit, it just wouldn't let up. He was about to question the scoring up on the massive LED board, wondering a little about how they got so high, what they had to do, all that, when a guy in an immaculate suit stepped into the rink and made his way to centre ice with a microphone, causing a hush to fall over the arena. Mickey was alight with pins and needles, the anticipation eating at him, his nervous disposition forcing him to the lip of his seat, so eager to see Ian with a ribbon around his neck. He glanced up at the board to try and see Ian's score versus the guy who had won but the screen had changed to the Olympic logo.

“Ladies. Gentlemen,” he began, an interpretation echoing on the sound system, “Welcome to the awarding ceremony for today's single male figure skating athletes. Please join us in giving a congratulatory welcome to our medallists. In third place, from Russia, Ivan Lipvenkavo.”

The hall erupted in a cheer, loud and catchy as the named skater walked quickly out of the gate to take his place on the third step, waving and bowing and smiling like he was having the time of his life. He probably was, Mickey concluded, he'd won a medal. Not an every day thing, this. “In second place, from the United States of America-”

The guy couldn't finish his introduction for the roar of the stadium was both deafening and blinding, making Mickey giddy and his head buzz. The redhead had mentioned he was a favourite, and Louie had droned and gushed on and on about how much attention Ian had gotten himself, but fuck, this was something else. They'd played it down, obviously - Ian was adored by everyone, is was so clear, regardless of the country he was representing; the arena was going mental, Mickey and his team, his dads and Mandy included. They were giving it everything, yelling and jumping and fist pumping as Ian appeared in the gate and walked out, waving and laughing in shock, looking totally overwhelmed and _shy_. Fucking shy, Ian Gallagher? Mickey nearly fell over with the feeling he got.

“Ian Gallagher!” the man laughed, bowing to Ian as he took the second plinth and shook Ivan's hand, standing with his back straight and his head held high, mask still covering half of his face. “In first place, from the United States of America, Jason Brown.”

“US one and two? _Yes_!” roared Thompson, jumping up to the wall to bang on it and really let go. There was no one as patriotic as Joseph Thompson. Mickey's throat hurt from all of the yelling and his hands ached from clapping so hard and clenching his fists and his eyes burned. The arena took it's time to calm down, having erupted into another riot of deafening noise as Jason walked to his step, emotional and clinging to Ian like his knees were going to give out. The USA held the title of the most medals won in Olympic figure skating and it seemed like they weren't going to give it up without a fight, the atmosphere charged like an electrical storm. Whenever the team had won matches, their crowd was manic, but this? Maybe it was the sheer size of the arena, or the fact that it was the Olympic games, or maybe it was simply because the audience adored the skaters so much, what they did, Mickey had no idea, but he prayed that, _if_ they won a medal, their own arena felt like this and Ian felt like he did. _Now_ Mickey understood the hype surrounding the Games.

“Jesus Mick! Jesus fucking hellfire!” Louie gurgled, gripping his best friends hand like his life was ending, his eyes puffy and shining. Mandy hand her hands on Mickey's shoulders and he sat back, allowing her to ground him before he fell deep into a stupor. This was surreal. He watched as some suited and booted men and well dressed ladies approached and handed out flowers, took medals off of cushions to hang around the respective skaters neck, shaking hands and bowing and chatting mildly. Then, as they backed off, the skaters posed for a photo or five thousand before leaping from their plinths to get the arena in another uproar of praise and hype, Mickey lost in it, watching Ian's beaming smile and his emotion.

Thompson let out a loud whistle, not a cheering one, but an attention catcher and Mickey's eyes snapped to him. The man was thumbing over his shoulder to where Svetlana stood, impatiently waving at him to get Mickey up and moving to her apprehensively, suspicious and uncertain. He gave his coach a questioning frown and the tower-block merely smiled, turning to continue his caterwauling.

“You come with me,” she said as she snatched his sleeve and pulled him down into the walkway that ran the lip of the rink wall, away from cameras and out of sight of everyone. She kept pulling, _Christ she did have a grip_ , until they got to an arch in the arena wall and she turned sharp through it, hauling Mickey along whether he wanted to go or not. “You sit here and you stay still. You do not want to go anywhere, trust me this much, yes?” she said, forcing him down onto a padded bench in a white spacious room.

“Do I have a choice?” he joked and regretted it immediately; this lady was, apparently, _not_ a joker.

“You do not wish to miss out, trust me. But, I will warn you,” Svetlana was in his face, bending to get so close Mickey had to push back against the wall to avoid her nose touching his, “If you move, you upset him. You upset him, I castrate you. I do not spend my life making his, for you to make the boy sad and for it to all fall to ash. He does not know I have found you and this will be a nice thing for him after the day he has been through _and_ I do not believe you think he is not worth your time, I do not think you are a prick like that. _Yet_. Stay here, do not move.”

“Y-yes, fuck, OK. Back the fuck away, I don't like shit like this. P-please, move back?” Mickey swallowed as she did so, eyeing him for good measure before giving him a pointed look and rocketing out through the arch and back to the yelling arena. Christ, he hated personal space invaders when they weren't considered for such invasions. He scowled at the wall and realised then how his coach knew, or seemed to know, about Ian – Thompson knew Svetlana and God only knows how many gossip sessions they'd had during lunch breaks in the canteen. Mickey groaned at the idea of it and winced as his brain reminded him that his coach was sitting with his dads now, his old friends, the worst blabber mouths and also sitting with, by far the worst now Mickey had outed himself to everyone, _Louie_. He had no reason to keep a lid on it, though Mickey hoped he would purely out of respect. He rubbed his forehead and sniffed. Fat chance. Louie had no filter when he had no line to keep him in check.

The noise of the arena had died down and had been replaced with loud music, a cheer every now and then, but it was enough to mask the footsteps of an approaching person because Mickey only noticed his wasn't alone after a few minutes when the feeling of being watched hit him. Snapping his head up from where he was looking at the stitching on his Nike's, Mickey found Ian looking at him with a watery smile.

“Oh God, _Ian_ ,” Mickey choked and was up and wrapping his arms gently around Ian's shoulders, tucking his face into Ian's neck as he held him tight, exhaling deeply as strong arms circled his back and fingers gripped his jacket. “So fucking proud of you. I am so, so happy for you. Christ, Ian, a goddamn silver medal,” he said thickly against his skin, kissing it lightly, nuzzling the smooth warmth of it with his nose. He could feel the solid lump against his chest, the metallic embodiment of a dream, hard and cool and _real_ underneath the softness of Ian's clothes. The object responsible for Ian staying until the closing ceremony. Mickey had never regarded something that belonged to another person with such awe, the importance of it so heavy in his heart and yet, he had never felt this light. Much as he wanted to thank the metal decoration, kiss it and wrap it in bubble-wrap, tell it how much he valued it, he knew that the sole reason for Ian staying was the man himself.

Ian chuckled and ducked to put his cheek on Mickey's jacket, against his shoulder, “I can't believe it.”

“Yeah, well, I can, thank you very much. Knew you had it in you,” Mickey laughed, pulling out of the hug to get a good look at the skaters face. “Twinkle toes didn't save you from this though,” he mumbled, touching Ian's chin with his fingers lightly to turn him this way and that, “Does it hurt much?”

Ian hummed and moved away a little to untie the ribbon at the back of his head, “Like a bastard. I had to say it didn't hurt too much otherwise they would have given me powerful painkillers and I'd have been retired. Not allowed to skate with any influence in our systems, even fucking painkillers and anyway, they would have sent me funny and that would have been lethal if I had somehow managed to convince them to allow me to finish. Doesn't matter now, I can have some in a little while and get cleaned up better.”

As the ribbon fell, Ian carefully pulled the mask off and Mickey hissed, concerned and fearful as Ian dropped the lace on the bench and gave Mickey all the time he wanted to touch and look at the damage. “Jesus wept, that's going to look _so bad_ tomorrow. Took a real hit, huh?”

“Yeah, whole body weight behind me. I'm surprised nothing is broken you know? Ned says it's just severe bruising but damn, it feels like I broke my fucking cheekbone- fuck, _shit_ , ow, ow,” he whined and Mickey flinched. He'd barely put a fingertip on the swelling of Ian's cheek. It wasn't broken; Mickey'd seen a broken cheek occur during practice and the guy's face had distorted, his eye had filled with blood and he'd been taken immediately to hospital – by Dean on his shift when he was an EMT - and ended up having corrective surgery. Ian was lucky, but not so at the same time, as a smash to a wall hurt no matter what part you hit, but to the face? Mickey could sympathise, he'd done enough times. He was a firm believer that all skaters, hockey or figure or speed, had been specifically selected in the womb by higher beings for having the bone density of a dam wall and their lives orchestrated so they would end up in the roles they were. His dads thought him mad. Mickey gave no single shit; they couldn't argue with him much as Mickey had broken very few bones and he took the brunt of the match tension.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he smiled and Ian waved his apology off, cupping Mickey's cheeks and raising an eyebrow. “What?” he chuckled, Ian's fond look amusing him the longer he was subjected to it. The left side of Ian's face was hugely swollen and purpled over and around his cheek and jaw hinge, his eye partially puffed and his nose still crusted with blood around his nostrils. He really didn't look fond at all, more sick and confused, but Mickey knew the glint in his eye enough by now to know he was happy.

“I'm really, _really_ happy you're here,” Ian said quietly, half smiling now the mask wasn't helping keep his face under some kind of control. Having smiled as much as Ian had been doing, Mickey guessed his face was probably unleashing all kinds of pain in retaliation.

“Me too,” Mickey agreed, cupping Ian's neck with one hand and using the other to hold Ian's against his jaw. He loved soft moments when he could get them and rarely would they get a chance to abuse them outside of a hotel room, so now, with the arena busy and Ian all for Mickey, he let go of his usual restraints and absorbed himself in the private moment they had been given. Svetlana needed flowers, Mickey decided. For all of her scary mother-mode, she had given him this, whether for her own, or Ian's benefit, she had unconsciously given Mickey just what he had been craving since watching Ian skate.

“Can I kiss you?” Just what he'd been craving, indeed.

Mickey snorted, “Seriously, you still gonna ask permission? Dork- hey, won't it hurt?”

“Ah,” Ian breathed flippantly, “What's a little more pain when it gets me something far better, something worth the sting?” Mickey nearly rolled his eyes at the cheese coming out of this idiot, but he refrained; Ian was happy so he could be as cheesy as he wanted right now, hell, Mickey knew the feeling of winning something fought for. It made for giddy, silly feelings that overran the usual verbal receptors in the brain and made goo come out instead.

Mickey went to tease Ian a little more but his open mouth was caught by chilled, soft lips, cutting his circuit dead for a moment. He ran his hand down the length of Ian's arm and used his fingers to pull them close together, gripping the warmth of Ian's nape as he met his tongue and kissed all of his pride, all of his elation into Ian because no matter how many times he spewed the words, this was the only way he knew he could convey the _feeling_. Ian's hands dropped from his face and held flat against Mickey's lower back, tightening in the bunched up fabric of his jacket while his own went up into red hair, holding Ian's head and mouth against his as he kissed and kissed and kissed. He was so damn proud and it was swallowing him like a black hole.

Breaking away to allow Ian some stability - he was _swaying_ \- Mickey nosed along Ian's jaw and took it upon himself to imitate Ian and his affectionate gestures as they always managed to show Mickey how much the guy was feeling without saying anything; he kissed along Ian's jaw, the side not bruised, up to his cheek and along the curve of the bone and soft skin, softly kissed his closed eye and then his temple in a long, gentle kiss before pushing Ian's face into his neck to wrap him tight in his arms, fingering his hair and the hood of Ian's jacket. Ian's hands gripped harder and the skater peppered the patch of Mickey's neck he could get at with soft kisses and murmurs of _thank you_ and _I'm so happy right now_. Mickey's lips tingled with the sensation of Ian's skin under them, the hard and yet soft contours of his face imprinting in his mind, in his memory bank. It was a thrilling and comforting notion, knowing a simple press of his lips could bring himself, and Ian, all kinds of warmth and unspoken emotion.

“You wanna see it?” Ian asked quietly, just breathing and taking whatever feeling Mickey and his body were giving to him until he wrenched himself back and shyly smiled, making Mickey snort as he watched Ian unzip his jacket and reveal the silver disc hanging around his neck on a retro looking ribbon. “Want to wear it? It's a heavy little fucker, kind of like you,” Ian joked, earning himself a shove and a snotty grin.

“It's yours so, keep it on, winner. I'll just touch,” Mickey said, reaching out to lift the disc from Ian's chest and hold it in his hands. It _was_ heavy. “Sweet man, this is all kinds of awesome.”

“You know,” Ian began casually, pulling it off anyway only to put it around Mickey's neck as he spluttered and tried to refuse, “I think you're my good luck. Honestly, hear me out here. Since meeting you in the foyer, everything has turned around. I got checked in nicely, no issues, I got to carry the flag. My skating got better but Svet thinks that has to do with her and not me trying to impress anyone. My accidents haven't been nearly half as bad as they would usually be because I'm actually enjoying my time here. I got to know you intimately, emotionally and physically when you really could have shut off and been distant after everything you've had before. You allowed me too _see you_...” Ian stroked the disc against Mickey's chest, toying with it while Mickey watched his fingers, not daring to look up as he took in the honesty and sincerity of Ian's words.

“You made me feel free,” Mickey said very quietly and shrugged, lifting his gaze a little. “You winning this is all you, not me-”

Ian put his fingers to Mickey's lips to shush him and smiled, “My focus has been on target, a thousand percent, and I honestly believe it is because of you. Call me a sap, or mushy or whatever but I wanted to make you smile, always smile, because it's the most beautiful thing I have _ever_ seen and I knew that if I won, or placed at all, you'd smile so big and bright and for me and that's all I wanted. Maybe I'm selfish in that sense, to want you smiling for me as much as possible. Who wouldn't want this?” Ian winked as Mickey flushed hot and had an uncontrollable smile working his cheeks and jaw, creasing up his eyes.

“So selfish,” Mickey agreed with sass, feeling similar because fuck, Ian's smile lit up his world.

Ian held the medal and pressed his forehead to Mickey's, making him close his eyes and settle, “This medal is because of you, Moo, maybe even for you? I wanted to win, _so bad_ , but I freaked out and I got sloppy in the short program, that's why I came second... so for the long program, I was panicking and after this fall and the pain, God Mick, I thought I was going to fly though the roof with how stressed I was. And then I saw you come in, and this peace came over me and pretended I was dancing for you again, not the world, and look where it got me. So yeah, you can nay-say and argue with me all you like, but I guess it _is_ because of you that I got this.”

“Ian...” Mickey couldn't work his mouth, so he sucked in sharp through his nose and held Ian by the back of his neck, touching their noses together, keeping their foreheads connected. Ian had to know he was cutting Mickey to bits with his kindness. He had to. But that was just who Ian was and Mickey... Mickey loved that.

“I can't thank you enough for giving me the chance to make you smile, to touch you, kiss you, _know_ you. Hey, your kiss this morning must have given me an extra boost of luck. I knew I couldn't leave without kissing you goodbye. Would have wrestled it out of you- oh! I _did_ , didn't I?” Ian chuckled deeply, humming low and dirty and Mickey swore. Again with his ignition switch – _snap!_ Flirt. _Snap!_ Prince Charming. It was like he knew the mood was getting to the point where neither could really say much else without it being like a moment between a married couple, so he displaced the emotion and redirected it.

Mickey kissed Ian's cheek and laid the softest kiss he had ever given on the bruised one, then accepted the sweet one Ian gave back, sucking on the redheads top lip as he in turn rolled his tongue over Mickey's bottom one. Someone moaned lightly and Mickey was ready to accept that it was most likely him, but a bang stopped them mid-angle switch, eyeing one another as they listened.

“You want my skater?” Svetlana's overly loud call made Ian groan and pull back with an apologetic grimace, planting kisses to Mickey's temple and between his brows as he disengaged. Mickey sighed and smiled, hating having to let go, and took off the heavy disc to lovingly put back around Ian's neck. “Ian Gallagher is right down this way,” she was still making sure she was stupidly loud, giving them warning, time to move like, three feet apart. Mickey rolled his eyes and picked up Ian's mask as she rounded the wall and smiled, seeing them presentable and looking unsuspecting.

“Lana?” Ian questioned as she flicked her wrist and then Mickey was enveloped in chaos. There was no other word for it as three adults ran in screaming and yelling and jumping all over Ian like Mickey's team had done to him outside. The joy and the red hair and familiarity they exuded told Mickey that these people were Ian's family. Suddenly he felt like he was totally imposing on something private, regardless of what they had just been sharing, this was far too personal for him to see and Mickey carefully edged out of the way, towards the doorway. “Wait!” Ian's loud shout cut through the noise and rendered Mickey still and the room silent.

“No way!” the young lad gasped, his hands inching to his head in shock as he clocked Mickey.

“Where are you going? You gotta leave?” Ian asked, confused as Mickey scratched the back of his neck, nodding out to the arena.

“Uh. Your family's here and mine are out there. Didn't, uh, want to impose?” he wanted to kick himself for his stuttery explanation and flushed when Ian shook his head with sweet, soft smile. Impromptu family meeting was under way it seemed and Mickey took a deep, deep breath and let it calm his flighty nerves.

“They're loud as fuck, I get that, but they won't bite you. Guys?” he got their attention and nodded at Mickey, every set of eyes on him in a flash, “This is Mickey.”

“Hi,” Mickey gave a tiny, awkward wave and shifted on his heels. “Nice to meet you.”

“You didn't fucking tell me that your Mickey was Mickey Milkovich, you asshole! You know I'm a massive Hawks fan, dick!” the lad punched Ian's arm hard but Mickey barely registered the cursing play-fight that erupted. _Your Mickey_.

“Hey,” the eldest woman approached with her hand out and a warm smile on her face, “I'm Fiona, this is Debbie.”

“Hello!” Debbie chirped, offering her hand after Fiona. “That's Carl. Nice to finally meet you, Mickey.”

“Lip isn't here, he isn't coming and he will know about it once I get my ass home and kick his,” Fiona grouched, smiling as soon as she realised that Mickey needn't have heard that. He smiled anyway. Lip was probably going to kick his own ass for missing this. His funeral. Mickey didn't want to meet him.

“He is a little bitch,” Svetlana piped up, looking at her fingernails like she was spouting a weather report. “You keep him away from orange boy when he is on my time. He only makes him upset and I told you before; there is no re-constructive surgery he could hope to find for an ice skate lodged up the ass,” Svetlana sniffed, folding her arms and daring Fiona to argue. The brunette merely winked and giggled, turning to Ian now Carl had let go of him. Mickey found the spiky, messed up ginger hair rather cute.

“Mick? This is Carl, and he lo-oves you!” Ian teased, hopping away as Carl swore nastily and swung for him, ducking his face when he noticed Mickey eyeing him curiously.

“Sup? Big fan, man,” Carl tipped his head up in greeting but didn't come any closer. Mickey smiled as toothy as he could and moved towards him, laughing as Carl shifted nervously and made to run for it.

“Easy, kid. Nice to meet you,” he offered his hand and fought the grin down as he watched Carl fidget and flounder. “You shake it. Not gonna bite you.”

As Carl took it, the lad made a funny little noise and Ian barked a laugh, “Such a freaking dork. Oh my God.”

“Fucking shut up,” Mickey said highly, turning to grin at him in order to hide his humour from Carl who was hissing and glaring at his feet with embarrassment. “Hey, you know Senlintsky and Fael?” Carl nodded like Mickey had said the most obvious thing ever, “What about Jake Brooker, Seth Donaheugh and Milo Hollander?”

Carl scoffed, “Redwings? Yeah, I know them.”

Mickey smiled and nodded, “OK, all right, so you know a few. Probably know the whole lot of 'em-”

Ian stepped over and grinned lopsidedly, “Are you-”

“Yeah. Think it'd kill him? I mean, kinda nearly melted into the floor with just me,” Mickey said conversationally, ignoring Carl's insanely curious stare.

“What can I say? You're a Gallagher favourite. Hey, aren't you guys made up of like, a player from nearly every-”

“Not 'nearly', at least one from every team in the US. We got a lot of subs, whatever,” Mickey waved off Ian and turned to Carl, folding his arms and furrowing his brows. “You strike me as someone who would appreciate a little meeting with my guys, hell, they'll probably be _more_ fucking excited after today. Jesus, Ian, when they see you... swear on my fucking life man, they're going to _maul_ you.”

“Why?” Ian paled a little and Svetlana coughed, pointedly looking out of the room at something.

“They know,” Mickey supplied with a shrug and felt his face heat at the smile he got. He leant in conspiratorially, “Kinda proud of you too.”

“Hold up, back up, easy now...” Carl said, hands out as he tried and failed to work out what on earth these tangents meant. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Svetlana spoke up, looking down the short hall, “They have been staring down here for five minutes like dogs waiting for treats. You want them in here, you give them the go ahead. I'm going to get a coffee because I cannot deal with the USA circus coming to town. I suggest you ladies come with me,” she raised her brows pointedly at the Gallagher girls and they didn't object. “Ian, you are off my time now. I will catch you later,” she called as she left and Mickey turned from his captive audience to peer around the wall, laughing.

“OK, you ain't never gonna be ready for this because fuck, they're like kids in Orlando,” he gave Ian a smile and pulled up his brow at Carl's frown, laughing at the dawning blank face dribbling down the kid. Putting his fingers in his mouth, Mickey let out an ear splitting whistle; the reaction was an immediate clamouring of his team and he backed away into the room and put himself in front of Ian, hands out like he was ready for a damn lion. Heavy, loud footfalls sounded seconds before Louie appeared and glanced around, yelling as soon as he saw Ian.

“You beautiful son of a bitch!”

Mickey put his hands up as the rest of his guys came rumbling in, “Whoa! Calm it! One second, please? Please, fuck, stop right there!” he shouted and managed to get them to all shut the hell up for a moment, though it was killing them to do it. “You guys can unleash your dragon in a second. I'm not the over-bearing, over-protective, don't touch my stuff-”

“Liar!” Jake interjected and Mickey scowled hard at him.

“Jesus, he took a fall remember? Ian's face is pretty busted up so don't fucking rag him as much as you did to me, a'ight?”

“Boss,” they all echoed and Mickey relaxed, moving away to let them at Ian. They were subdued, mostly to keep from jostling the guy around too much, hugging him, congratulating him, gushing over him and his performance, his medal, _everything_. Even his shiner. Mickey smiled fondly and stood to the side with Carl, watching until Louie noticed him.

“Bro, this is epic shit, like, supernova epic,” Louie swung his hand out to grasp Mickey's, pulling him in for a hug. “Who is this? Looks like he's uncomfortable.”

“This is Ian's kid brother, Carl,” Mickey supplied, motioning to Carl where he was trying to melt away again. “He's a Hawks fan and a huge hockey follower, from what I know. Thought it'd be nice for him to meet the US team while he has the chance. Carl, you probably know who this lot are so, whatever man, don't be shy. They sure as fuck ain't!”

“Guys?” Louie called, smiling like he'd hit the jackpot. “This here is Carl. He's a fan of the sport but, more importantly, he's a _Gallagher_. How do we greet Gallagher's who clearly adore our Mickey? How do we do it?!”

Ian was released in favour of Carl, managing to yell out _don't crush him_ even though it seemed futile, his brother getting swept into a tide of hockey players as he looked on, catching Mickey sniggering to himself. “You've got yourself a fan for life now,” Ian smiled, standing as close as he could to Mickey without touching him.

“Ah, he's a good kid. Appreciates ice hockey so-”

“I didn't mean Carl, Moo,” Ian breathed into his ear, smiling smugly as Mickey gawked and felt his cheeks heat. He nudged Ian with his elbow and tried to hide his smile, but today, it just _wasn't_ listening.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY! SILVER! BOOM! 
> 
> so much excitement for these two, omygosh, i was constantly squishing my cheeks lol hope you liked this :) as i said, im working on 13 already so... ;)


	13. USA - Finland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has a run in with Luke that ends with someone else sticking up for him, someone he didn't ever think to consider. Mickey visits a very medicated Ian. The team has their quarter finals against Finland and Mickey finds himself in the midst of first-aid, yet again. Ian meets Dean and Richard - enter protective!Richard and sass master, can-hold-his-own Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now then - this was a bully. It took me far too long to be even remotely happy with it but there you go, i am hardly ever happy with these chapters (except the last one, that was great). Enjoy my lovelies! I hope it's good for you :)  
> WARNING: LUKE - with him comes abusive speech and memories, it may trigger some of you if you've ever had that. Use of powerful medication and memories of the effect they had on Mickey (idk might trigger someone, so im warning you) hockey fights, blood, choking, cute boys and pain in the ass dork dads. I was gonna do smut, but it didn't fit with Ian being busted up.

 

Mickey sat on one of the run of the mill hotel chairs, one of the many lining the walls of the conference room, watching the party. The skating celebration was far more outrageous than the hockey one had been, but then again, they had medal winners in this crowd, so he could understand the need to explode with cheers, dancing and extreme amounts of alcohol. He looked down at his drink and pulled a face; his team, and that included everyone from sub to Thompson, had been sworn off the booze for the night in preparation for their match tomorrow. Mickey knew he could have plenty of fun without getting buzzed, but he still felt like a sore thumb on a hand of bejewelled and glittery fingers. The fact that Ian wasn't down yet also threw him for a loop.

Mandy was in the throw of the jumping, dancing crowd, Louie was elsewhere, having found someone to flirt with who had flirted back in equal amounts, and Jake and the rest of the guys were scattered about, laughing or dancing. His dads had retired a few hours before, yawning so much Mickey could barely stand it and had made them go find their bed with the promise of seeing them before the match. Mickey was most definitely feeling like a sore thumb, so he took himself outside for a smoke and this time, he found himself with some company.

“For _fuck_ sake, why do you appear every time something like this is going on? It's like you're here to ruin my fun on purpose,” Mickey bitched, moving as far away from Luke as he possibly could without losing the door, hoping the giant dick stayed the hell where he was. Luke curled his stunned mouth into a sinister grin but he stayed put, thankfully. He knew better than to fuck with Mickey when he'd not had a drop of alcohol, his mind sharp and his fists accurate. Mickey knew better than to mess with a drunk Luke. He was starting to wish he'd just turned around and gone through to the front of the hotel.

“I'm allowed to be here, it's not your fucking world Mickey, you don't get to decide where I am and when. You know, one would think you didn't like me,” Luke pouted and Mickey snarled, sucking on his cigarette rather than dignifying that with an answer. Luke moved and Mickey froze, watching his ex wander towards him, “Why don't you like me, moo?”

Mickey skin crawled and he held a deep, rib stretching breath as he turned fully, facing the drunk lout he'd once _maybe_ loved. “Watch yourself,” he warned lowly, his voice at that dangerous level Luke seemed to recognise through his haze because he stopped where he was, mid-step with a peculiar look on his face.

“Never did like me calling you that. Does ginger snap call you that?” Luke said, his tone angry and Mickey clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. The cigarette was burning down in his fingers and he wanted to ram the fucking thing into Luke's neck, “I bet he does. Does he moan that when he's fucking you?”

“ _Shut_ your fucking mouth.”

Luke grinned, a dirty thing that twisted his already hateful features into something vile, “Touch a nerve, did I? I wonder, does he know about the little whimper you do when you get nailed so hard you can't form words? Maybe he hasn't done you as good yet. Does he know about that sensitive spot behind your right ear? Does he know how beautiful you sound when you're on your knees, begging to be untied because-” Luke's low snarls changed to mimic what he believed Mickey sounded like, “ _it hurts baby, let me go, I'll be good, I'll be your good boy_. _I want to please you baby, only you_.”

Mickey's stomach was rolling as Luke smiled like the smug bastard he was, trying to empty the fruit juice he'd drank down, trying to expel _everything_ that Luke had just made him digest. His nerves flared and his skin boiled, and Mickey _knew_ Luke could see he was affecting him; he was trying to break Mickey, making him remember the abuse that Luke saw as pleasure, as love, trying to make him react in some way but Mickey had hated him for too long to allow that now, standing still and quiet.

“Do you remember how I'd kiss your hurts, Mick? Do you remember how much I wanted you to be mine, how much I cared and how badly I needed you to give yourself over to me? But no, you never let me in, never let me see you,” Luke drawled, staying put even though Mickey could see how his body twitched, how he was holding himself in check because he still didn't fully know what Mickey could do, would do, because in truth, he didn't know Mickey at all. “Do you give yourself to _that boy_? You never gave yourself to me, Mickey, never, and that's why I did those things to you. You deserved the punishment because I gave everything to you and oh, you took everything. I always gave you my all, and you? You were such a selfish little prick. You never let me kiss you, you heartless pie-”

“You can fucking stop right there, you delusional cunt,” Mickey snapped, stepping forward quickly, his anger overriding everything else. “You think you're justified, don't you? You think you're right for having abused me, in every fucking sense of the word, breaking me down while you cheated, while you tried to force me-” Mickey's voice broke off and he stepped forward again, teeth bared behind curled lips. “What you did was something only you can be blamed for, not me. I wasn't selfish, you were. My behaviour, if you can even call it 'behaviour' because I never fucking did anything! You kept me housebound, isolated and alone aside from Louie because he scares the living shit out of you, doesn't he? Anything I did, any of my behaviour should have _never_ warranted such a fucking response from you, not from someone who claimed to love me. You lost my love, if it was _ever_ there, and my respect the second you landed the first rage fuelled punch to my jaw. That was the moment I shut off and closed you out because why the fuck would I let you in after that? I didn't know you any more. Hah, if you think you can push me around and get to me like you did before, after all this time, and after I've found myself again? You got another fucking thing coming, fuckhead. You _don't_ fucking scare me, you don't fucking _know_ me and you sure as shit _don't fucking own me_. The hell do you get off thinking such a damn thing in the first fucking place?”

“You were mine!” Luke barked and Mickey breathed a laugh through his nose, because what the fuck was this guy's mental process, really? Mickey licked his teeth and put his hand out, flat and completely steady, eyeing the seething fuck he couldn't actually believe he'd been with. Much as he wanted to cower in the corner, something deep in his gut told him to stand his ground and that all Luke could really do was twist his thoughts if he let him. It also told him that a punch in the face wasn't shit compared to what he'd suffered in the rink, or what Ian had suffered and he'd gone and won a medal after it, so fuck Luke. If he was going to throw a punch, Mickey was ready to drop his drunk ass.

“God, you got some problems man. I was never yours, just your fucking captive in my own home,” Mickey spat, remembering his therapist's voice saying _Stockholm Syndrome_. “My life is gaining and yours? This is as good as it's ever going to get because _you_ fucked up Luke, you ruined your own shit by being some kind of possessive, obsessive abuser, and you can't blame me for it, that's all you.”

Luke seethed and made to step forward, Mickey's hand on his chest stopping his drunken stumble, “You made me-”

“Fuck did I _make_ you do anything!” Mickey shook with the force of his frustration, the level of his voice. “Flip it over, Luke, take off those rose tinted glasses that you've got wedged on your face. Christ. Accept that it fell to shit because of _you_ and the way _you_ behaved, not me! You almost destroyed me for fuck sake, turning me into some weak ass bitch who was frightened of you. What kind of- you know what? Fuck this, fuck you. You've finished your smoke so fuck off, leave me the hell alone and leave _my life_ alone. I'm allowed a damn life without _you_ in it; your fucking name or face or presence or otherwise!” Mickey yelled, shaking all over.

Luke was silent and Mickey felt a little better for it even though he was fighting back the nastiest freak out yet, clenching his fists repeatedly to focus because if he lost even a speck of resolve in front of this asshole, he was gone for. Luke loved weakness and Mickey would gladly be damned to hell if he let any show. Much as the conviction in his voice told Luke he wasn't scared of him, Mickey was absolutely terrified of him and he was itching to get back inside but Luke's stare held him in place.

“You really don't like me, do you? You used to love me,” Luke mumbled, like he hadn't heard anything, only took in the feeling of what Mickey had said, how angry he was. Mickey groaned and stepped back, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Don't think I ever did,” Mickey whispered and flew back against the wall as Luke rushed forward, arm against Mickey's throat. “The fuck do you think you're doing?” Mickey asked carefully, forcing himself not to move or blink as Luke growled in his face.

“You loved me, you did!” Luke said angrily and then his face fell as he looked at Mickey, letting his arm drop. “And I ruined it. I'm so sorry! Moo, I love you, I never meant to hurt you baby, I promise I never meant to do it. You just, you pushed me too hard sometimes. But I know I was wrong, fuck Mickey, I love you so much, I won't do it any more, come back with me, not him. He can't ever love you like I do,” he babbled, desperately pawing at Mickey's stone still body, touching his face with shaky fingers. Mickey was well versed in this guys manipulations and so, he stayed still and quiet, ignoring everything because it was all a filthy lie. Luke was right; Ian would _never_ love him like Luke did and that's exactly what Mickey wanted. Carefully, as Luke was too fixed on Mickey's face, Mickey put his hands against Luke's chest just as he leant in to kiss him, wet and messy and ripe with alcohol and Mickey bit his tongue hard, felt it pop and crunch between his teeth, swallowing the scream of pain and rage as he shoved Luke.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Mickey pushed him hard as the door flew open with a bang - _Shit! Louie!_ \- and Luke snagged him by the collar, swinging his body weight around to overbalance Mickey and throw him to the floor, climbing over his shocked body until he had his knees on Mickey's shoulders and a fist ready. Mickey was pinned and he _hated_ it with a passion because fuck, did he want to punch this bastard out but, at the same time, he wanted to sink into the floor and weep because _not this again, not again_.

“You cock teasing motherfucker!” Luke hissed.

“Hey! You land that fist and I swear to God, no fucker is gonna be able to keep me from obliterating your punk ass all over this courtyard!” Louie yelled as his heavy stride banged over the decking. “Medals and matches be fucking damned, I will ruin you if you touch him. Harley? Fetch the boys.”

Mickey was fighting to keep his breathing under control and his face as mad as he could make it even though it was trying to desperately to crease into utter fear, watching Luke watching him intently, fist still poised to lump him one. “Get off, Luke. Don't make this any worse,” Mickey said quietly, trying to calm the guy down like he used to, using the tone he'd mastered over the months of having to save himself the trouble of taking and issuing a beating.

Thompson's swearing growl burst through the door, followed by angry shouts and warnings as Mickey's team moved out and still Luke hadn't moved. “The fuck did I tell you before? I'm pretty sure I warned you off with a threat to bounce your ass if you didn't heed it! Get the hell off of him, Luke, because this lot might not be able to smack you around 'cause they risk disqualification, but I sure as hell can. They can win without me, they got the skills to steer my ship if I can't and I'll gladly take a back seat for roughing you up.”

“What is going on?” Mickey nearly turned to look at the sound of Svetlana's voice because if she was there, then Ian was. He really didn't want or need Ian seeing this ugliness. “Who is the bully?”

“Get off, Luke,” Mickey breathed as the ignorant idiot pressed his knees down harder, growling and moving to grip Mickey around the throat rather than punch him now he had a massive audience. Louie was on Luke in a flash, ripping him off in a headlock and away with a colourful curse as voices mumbled and chattered explanations and disgusted observations. Jake helped Mickey to sit while Bart edged towards Louie ragging Luke around on the slippery decking, his arm tight and bulging through his t-shirt. “He's drunk,” Mickey called and Louie raised an eyebrow, curling his lip.

“Don't fucking excuse him, Mi-”

“I'm not!” Mickey assured, “I'm just telling you. You know what he's like when he's had a drink, he gets brave and think he's fucking superman with a right to beat on me for existing. Probably wanted to do it since he saw me the other night, just never got the chance.”

Louie softened, only a touch though, heaving in air as he held Luke fast, shaking him a little while snapping, “Prick.”

“Let go of him, Lou,” Thompson ordered softly. “Now is not the time, kid,” he pushed and Louie let go, moving only a step away, ghosting and crowding his target. Mickey smiled; Louie would mangle Luke if he was clear to.

“He is abusive ex,” Svetlana summarised and, to Mickey's horror and glee, she stepped into Luke's space to analyse his face for a second, and then she slapped him hard enough to send him stumbling. “I read about you in the paper and saw you on the news. You do not abuse someone you say you love, you do not push them around to make yourself feel better. You are a piece of shit who does not deserve even a glance from him. You are a disgusting excuse of a human being and now I know you are here, and my division is complete, you have another reason to look over your shoulder besides the circus and my boy. You hurt him, I hurt you. I am Russian, you do not wish to force my hand because if you do, you will experience first-hand just what you put Mikhaylo through. You wish to shit on someone's happiness? Pick on someone your own size and I mean, just look, there are plenty of big boys here who would gladly take you on.”

“You're a nosey bitch who should keep her beak out of other peoples business,” Luke spat and Svetlana popped up an eyebrow, folding her arms as the team all confirmed that they'd love a go at him if he wanted to try it. Louie moved to Mickey's side as he stood up, checking his throat for bruising absently and Mickey let him, too busy watching this strange woman grin at Luke's snarling face.

“You know nothing, but that is maybe because you are a fuckwit,” she waved Luke off before jabbing him in the chest. “If you do not disappear and stay away from these boys, I will make it my duty to show you just what kind of bitch I can be. You mess with someone I know, and it does not matter how much or little I know them, I will make it my business. You give me a reason to stick my 'beak' in again, and I _will_ come for you like wind down the mountain." She dropped her voice and got real close, "I also know a lot of people who can make an insignificant, abusive bastard like you disappear, like you never existed, do you understand me?” she said coolly and Luke swallowed, nodding.

“Suggestion, kid,” Thompson placed a meaty hand on Luke's shoulder and breathed down his neck. “Scram. And unless it's to do with your hockey team, and we happen to be there too, you stay away. If it has nothing to do with you, don't step a foot into one of these parties again. If she doesn't get you first, I'm gonna rail on you and I'll fucking well enjoy it, too. As for your ex team mates? You really believe they still think the sun shines outta your ass after what you did?”

“They love me,” Luke hissed, begrudgingly going where Thompson's tight grip guided him.

“Boy, you really are fucking blind. They don't love you any more than they love losing a game. They tolerate you, Luke, because, believe this or not, _they_ are nice guys and nice guys don't like assholes like you. Why you even came here in the first place, I'll never know, but don't think for a second that I won't be whispering in their ears about your little games if you _dare_ go against my word again. You really wanna take on two hockey teams and an angry Russian woman _and_ her ninja skater? Shouldn't think you do, not if you know what's best for you. Now, tuck your tail between your legs and get the fuck out of my sight before I decided to hand you your ass now,” Thompson hummed as he shoved Luke through the door, watching him with a sharp gaze while Mickey's team rallied close to him, not a word spoken, but he knew they were checking in with him, letting him know they were worried, were there, had his back, _knew_.

Svetlana pushed through and tipped Mickey's chin up, looking for marks herself, tutting when she noticed something, “Just a pressure mark. You won't bruise from his filthy hands. I am glad I came to find you, but it wasn't for the purpose of scaring off nasty wolves.”

“Ah, should say thank you for that,” Mickey said bashfully, rubbing his nose as his team smiled and dispersed back into the party, no doubt on Luke's heels for the fun of it.

Svetlana waved her hand, “That was for me. I do not like abusive people and I will not stand for it, regardless of the who the victim is. So it happened to be you, it means little to me and I will not mention this to anyone either. It is your business in truth, even if we stuck our noses in. Listen, I had come to find you because of Ian-”

Mickey's blood dropped and his hand shot out to grab a hold of Svetlana's sleeve, “He OK?”

“Yes, do not panic yourself,” she said kindly and Mickey let out a breath, dropping his hand. “I came to tell you he cannot be a part of his celebrations tonight so we will have a party after the closing ceremony festivities. He was given some medication earlier, for the pain in his face, and cannot drink on them, not that he could if he tried, they've knocked him out cold for the night and I thought you might wish to know that, in case you wondered where he was or if you wanted to see him.”

Mickey nodded, feeling his mood damped right down, “Thanks for, uh, telling me. I guess I'll catch him after the match tomorrow. Think he'll be OK then?”

Svetlana laughed and stuffed her hand into her jacket pocket, “I did not mean you cannot go and see him.” She produced a green card and held it between her manicured fingers, “Here is the master key to that floor. I am sure you know all of the coaches have one in case of emergency, and as he was injured and now heavily medicated, I intend to use it later. I will need it back so I trust you to bring it me once you have seen him for a little bit, so do _not_ lose it. It'll do the both of you some good I imagine, to see each other, but do not go ass fucking, he is hurt and that would be a stupid thing. Curb your desires for one night, yes?”

“Holy fucking Christ, you needn't have said that, fuck,” Mickey flushed from his head to his toes as he took the card and Svetlana giggled, winking before she walked off, Mickey following quickly. “I'll come find you in a bit then?”

“Of course. I am going to enjoy the fruits of my labours,” she gestured at the party and nudged Mickey slightly. “He is in room 1015, near the very end of the hall, to the right as you leave the lift.”

“Uh, thank you. Again.”

“Bah, is nothing,” she said, wandering off to locate a drink or snacks, Mickey didn't know, but he was out of the party and hitting the button to call the elevator within a minute. He gave the floor number to the butler-type guy in the box and tapped the card against his thigh as the floors pinged by, turning right as he left the lift on the tenth floor, blinking through the yellow haze of the lights. Definitely a headache inducing colour. Not knowing whether he should knock the door, as Ian was more than likely out for the count, or just walk in, Mickey wafted back and forth in the hall for a good five minutes with nervous energy rolling off him. It was just Ian, but then he wasn't _just_ Ian, not to Mickey. Biting the bullet, Mickey swiped the card and double checked the door number as he pulled the handle and opened it, knocking as he did so just because it was polite and he needed something to occupy his fidgety hands.

“Ian?” he whispered out into the dark room, listening for signs of life. Gentle snores answered him and he shut the door quietly, reaching for the lights of the kitchenette in the 'hall' and hoping to God they were like the low, under cupboard up-lights he had, breathing out his relief when they came on. He toed off his shoes and crept through the room, everything a reverse of his own which he found an odd concept in the dim light, his mind telling him this wasn't right, the bedroom should be to his right, not his left. Mickey gave nothing a second glance because this was Ian's room, and his personal clutter wasn't for him to mooch at, and made a bee-line for the giant bed shrouded in darkness. For a horrifying moment, as the card unlocked every door on the tenth floor, Mickey froze, wondering if he had walked into the wrong one. His foot caught on a heavy bag at the foot of the bed and he looked down at it, shushing it with a smile when he saw 'Ian. C. Gallagher' shining up at him in big blue plastic letters.

“Huh?” came a sleepy grunt from underneath the quilt, followed by Ian's body moving slowly.

Mickey wandered to the side Ian was closest to and sat down carefully, “Hey, sleepy face.”

Ian hummed and turned his head, lay on his back as he was, and reached out from under the quilt, “Mickey?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said softly, pushing the quilt down as Ian stretched lazily.

“You're missin' the party, moo,” Ian's voice was thick and croaky and Mickey's ears drank it in, letting the tone and timbre soothe his frazzled nerves.

“You been partying then? Heard you've got a nice cocktail of drugs to get the mood goin',” Mickey chuckled, watching Ian blink an eye open and crack a dopey grin.

“Oh yeah, they're a real knock-out.”

“Well then, I'm sorry I'm late,” Mickey smirked, kissing Ian's palm as he reached up to cup Mickey's cheek, Mickey running his hand soothingly down the length of Ian's bed-warmed skin until he reached his shoulder. “How're you feeling?”

Ian groaned and shifted into the middle of the bed a little more, pulling the quilt open in a manner that suggested Mickey get under it, which, after taking off his jacket, he did, curling himself against Ian's bare chest, stroking him thumb back and forth over Ian's trapped arm. “The painkillers are great. No pain has managed to get passed them, but they're wearing off now and _Jesus_ do I know it. I think-” he looked around for the beady lights of his clock, “Yeah, I can take some more now.”

Mickey reached up to cup Ian's head and kissed his temple, careful not to bump his bruises, “Tell me where they are?”

Ian hummed and turned his face, Mickey's lips ending up pressed against the bridge of Ian's nose. “Kitchen, next to the fruit bowl thingy,” Ian rumbled, tipping up to kiss Mickey's chin before he could pull his face away and sat while Mickey took himself into the kitchenette to find the pills and a glass to fill. Taking two from the packet, Mickey's eyebrows rose upon reading _Kapake_. Ian had clearly been playing his suffering down because Mickey had taken that mix of painkillers before and he'd only taken them when he couldn't take the agony, crying legitimate tears it had been so crippling. He distinctively remembered when he'd been in the hospital; Mickey had told Louie, shortly after a recent dose of Kapake, that he was heavily into eating jello off asses and even requested Louie be his subject, going further along the thought path to the point where he firmly believed Louie was the grim reaper and Dean was Terry dressed in someone else's skin, screaming blue murder and trying to crawl up the wall away from them. He'd been sedated shortly after and kept in the ward for two nights until he could bare the pain enough to not need strong medication that might cause more hallucinating. He just hoped Ian wasn't as sensitive to the stuff, otherwise it was going to get a little messy.

“The high dose for _just bruising_ , huh?” Mickey mused as he handed Ian the pills and the glass of water. “Not sensitive to it, are you?”

“No, don't worry. I underestimated how much it was going to hurt, if I'm honest, hence the dosage,” Ian admitted, necking the meds and gulping down the entire glass. “I forget the face fuckin' _hurts_ and protests more than an ass cheek. Really likes to let you know you're a giant dumbo.”

Mickey laughed and took the glass back, wandering back into the bedroom to find Ian sitting up still, watching him with a soft smile on his face. “What?”

“You're here. In _my_ room. You are,” Ian said slowly. “You didn't need to come play nurse though.”

“I wasn't intending to come play nurse, just came to see how you are, idiot. Maybe next time I'll bring grapes or some shit,” Mickey said as he climbed back onto the bed, kneeling in front of Ian. “Just 'cause I got you some meds from the kitchen doesn't make me a nurse, it makes me a good person who gives more than a shit and doesn't like seeing someone he cares about in pain, _and_ if he can help it, he'll do whatever the fuck he can to change that.”

“Third person Mick...God, you're so damn cute,” Ian beamed at him, reaching up a sluggish hand to stroke along Mickey's jaw. “Wasn't criticizing you, moo. Just... I dunno, I find it sweet and I wasn't expecting you to even appear in my room, and you helping me is just so darn nice. I know you're a lovely guy, Mick, no need to explain yourself to me. It's cute, _endearing_ , you might say, and I just wanna kiss you to say thank you because you're so fuckin' adorable and nice and kind. All the time. But right now my face kinda hurts.”

Mickey snorted, “Good grief.”

“The best kind of grief,” Ian agreed as he lay back, tugging Mickey with him and shifting so he was curled into Mickey on his left side so his bruises weren't crushed into the pillow. Mickey pressed his mouth to Ian's head and kept issuing little kisses while stroking his red hair, listening to him humming in pleasure and contentment, nuzzling into Mickey's neck the more comfortable and drugged he got. “Your match is tomorrow, so, you can't stay the night,” Ian slurred after a few silent minutes. It wasn't a question, he was stating it, like he was _telling_ Mickey, _nah, you've got a match, you gotta go home, not risking that, nope, no_. _Home by midnight, princess_.

“Nope, but I'll stay until you fall asleep,” Mickey said, adding a few kisses of reassurance for good measure, much to Ian's delight as he nuzzled closer still, curling his hand in Mickey's shirt with a _thank you_ kissed into his skin.

As he was falling into a deeply drug induced sleep, the codeine taking effect, Ian mumbled against Mickeys neck _I don't deserve you_. He felt more like he didn't deserve Ian, but then he could hardly argue that with a drugged skater. His was heavily medicated and rambling, that's what Mickey told himself, because damn it, Mickey wasn't one for believing he was anything more than normal, nothing special about him. He knew the drugs warped the speech process and yet, he felt warmed by Ian's little mumbles and held him tighter, trying to believe it all, trying so very hard. _Fuck Luke_. Ian. Ian, Ian, Ian. _Ian_!

After about ten minutes of stroking Ian's hair and neck and grinning to himself, and disallowing any memory of Luke to enter his head and wreck everything like tiny little balls of destruction in his mind space, knocking down the little blocks that Ian was building up over the trash pile that Luke left, Mickey managed to untangle himself as a light wrapping came at the door. He beat a silent retreat after stroking a hand through fiery hair again, carrying his shoes with him and handing the card over to Svetlana as he let her in, smiling and reciprocating the fist bump she offered.

“I got bored, sorry to cut your time short,” she shrugged, edging into the room.

“Bah, is nothing,” he tried for Russian but whether he got it or not, he wasn't sure, but Svetlana seemed amused by it. “Just took more painkillers. Out like a light,” he whispered and she winked, waving a little as Mickey took of towards the stairs without saying anything more.

 

 

“Finland,” Mickey told Dean as the team regrouped outside their arena after their mid-morning break, bitching about the hoard of guys they'd be fighting in just over an hour.

“Oh, what a joyous game this'll be. Should we get the frozen peas in?” Dean giggled, earning a hard shove off both Mickey and Louie.

Louie sniffed and held his head high, “I am confident that I can hold my own against these guys. Sure, they're tough as old boots but it's anyone's game here. Even Canada had a hard fight against the UK for goodness sake, and that's sayin' somethin'.”

“Yeah but Lou,” Mickey clicked his tongue and pulled a face he hoped said _not feeling it bro_ , “ _Finland_. Gotta bring our A game today otherwise it's bye-bye-bye.” 

“Not thinking about it too much might help?” offered Richard and Dean nodded along. “Just give it everything you got and if you lose, you guys will know you did everything you could.”

“Not. Going. To. Lose,” gritted out Louie and Mickey snorted. “I know this, for I have on, my lucky underpants,” Louie smiled, bowing to nobody in particular.

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Not the fuckin' golden budgie-smugglers?”

“The very same! Hey, it's hard to wear shit under the damn jockstrap and every time I wear them, we win a fuckin' game so sue me if I think they work, assface. _Jesus_ ,” Louie griped, turning to hide his smiles and hold down the laughter.

Dean shook his head and pulled Mickey into a hard embrace, “Best of luck, kid. We'll be proud of you regardless, OK? Kick ass.”

“Take names,” Richard finished, hugging Mickey tight and planting a kiss to his head. “We'll still love you and your boys when you lose and end up busted to bits. Dad can patch you up!” Richard sang and Louie stuck up both middle fingers as the team moved inside on Thompson's order.

“Not. Going. To fucking lose!” Louie hissed, ignoring the laughter from Mickey's parents while they went in the other direction to look for something to do to pass an hour. Mickey knew his pops had done it on purpose; reverse psychology and all that. Louie had a streak in him that made him need to prove everyone wrong and Mickey only hoped that today, it really worked. He felt his own determined streak kick into gear as they set up for an hours practice, really nailing their moves and choreography and not pissing about in the slightest. This game was another make-or-break, another ticket to stay for the semi-finals or a ticket to board the next flight home. They wouldn't know until they had played the match out. Then, if they won, it'd be a waiting game to see who they were up against in the semi finals in a couple of days.

“Hit the showers! Refresh and wear the red jersey's today, not your blue ones,” Thompson bellowed, blowing his whistle until the whole team turned and made to leave the rink, subdued and nervous. The only words spoken in the showers were requests to share washing necessities or to get Louie to stop flicking his suds everywhere. _You need a fucking hair cut, Fael! This ain't a herbal essences advert!_

“Oh, I do love these leotards,” Shaun breathed sarcastically as he unfolded his match kit out on the bench.

“Beauties, aren't they?” chuckled Milo, fighting his way into his own rouge get-up, swearing when his arm got stuck in the tight sleeve of his leotard. “It's like fucking saran-wrap!”

“Only because you're a big ass baby who can't dress himself,” Mickey teased and yelped as Milo got free and made to towel-snap his bare ass – he didn't see the point of wearing underwear under a jockstrap, most of the guys didn't, it only made for annoying pinches and fabric fold induced itching. Louie was the exception, parading around with the straps hugging under and over the swell of his gold-clad ass like it was a fashion statement. “Less of that!” he warned Milo who narrowed his eyes, still twisting his towel in his hands, and Mickey quickly hopped into the legs of his leotard and hauled it on in record time. Much as he hated the thing, it kept him warm and his legs a little safer from cuts. Besides that, his ass and thighs stood right out and he thoroughly enjoyed traipsing around in it, wondering if Ian would appreciate the visual while tugging on his padding. Maybe he'd just appear in it, or sans, just in his jockstrap. He was hit with an image of Ian in one, knowing he wore the thing under his skate outfits, ass hugged by the strapping while it cupped his - _No_.

“Ladies!” Thompson's voice boomed around the changing room. “Today we fight because we fucking well want to, you hear me? I don't give two shits if you win or lose because, boys, I am damn proud to have picked you all. No matter the shitty start we had getting here, I have always been proud to coach you bunch of daisies. If you win, you win. If you lose, you lose. You won't change in my eyes, not for a dime! But, in saying this, go out there and slay those fuckers because who _are_ you?”

“The USA, coach!”

Thompson banged his fists on the side of the lockers like a drum, “Who the fuck are you?!” The roar of _USA, USA, USA_ made Mickey's ears buzz and his heart bang in excitement, yelling with everything he had. Their coach merely grinned, chewing his gum as he took a seat on the centre bench, helping lace up or velcro padding and braces into place if anyone seemed to be struggling overly. In no time, the whole team was dressed and ready to go, head-butting each other's helmets gently as they lined up at the doors, listening to the loud music and the chatter of the crowd again, only this time, they weren't bursting at the seams with energy. They were saving it, shuffling on their skates and murmuring softly and Mickey gripped his hockey stick as tight as he could with his chunky gloves, no nerves daring to get to him while he zeroed in on his goal; kick ass. He could definitely do that today. All he needed to do was picture Luke grinning at him over his guard, goading Mickey, taunting him like he'd done in previous matches – that fucker was done ruling what Mickey could and could not do with his daily life, and it was time to put that chapter to bed, once and for all and if meant taking out Finland to do it, Mickey was going to give it all he had.

“Give it your best, boys. I got you from the side,” Thompson yelled as they thundered out into the rink, those not playing benching themselves and preparing to launch at the drop of a hat. Mickey was immediately on high alert as the puck got passed around, ghosting the black disc and his team mates as they shot around and only ten minutes into play, he was barrelled over and hit the wall to the sound of the crowd going mad, booing and cheering in equal amounts. The Finnish player was penalised for checking intentionally and sent to the box while Mickey shook himself out and wondered how many times a bruise could bruise before it became a permanent tattoo. He managed to defend as much as he possibly could and sent the puck flying every time he caught the thing, launching it towards his three forwards – Louie, Jake and Martin – or taking goal shots if he was the closest. His main focus was keeping the puck away from Oliver with Milo's help, defending the shit out his goalie with planted feet and snarls. The whistle blew to mark the first third over and Mickey was on the bench, guzzling water and air like nobody's business.

“Good play, ladies,” Thompson said as he handed out bottles and face towels. “Rotation time. You lot are off for this play except for Oliver, unless you need it?”

“Nah, coach. M'good!” Oliver winked, wiping his sweaty face.

“Bart, take your group and nail these barbies. The score is tied and I'm not having that. I know I said I don't care if you guys lose but you gotta fight back, c'mon, give it some fuckin' welly!”

The second group went on once the whistle blew and Mickey took his time to cool off, watching Bart duck and slip around the rink, carefully guiding the puck towards Seth who shot the thing like a bullet and scored. The cheer was amazing and Mickey banged his stick, his mouth preoccupied with a bottle. Greg defended Oliver like Mickey, only with a much bigger presence because damn, that guy was huge and he had David at his side. Shaun and Seth looked like children skating around, grinning as they passed and snatched the puck back and forth, railing on Finnish sneaks whenever required but playing by the book, not one of them requiring more than a warning. Baker benched and out went Luca Alonso, big burly guy from Los Angeles who spoke little but put in a truck load of effort and took guys clean off their feet. Mickey didn't speak with the ones he wasn't usually rotated with as each rotation had their usuals for in-game play – Mickey's were Louie, Jake, Martin and Milo - and the goalie and unless they were substituted, Mickey rarely played with anyone outside of practice. If he did, it wasn't anything big, he just adapted and fit in like a jigsaw piece and played as best he could. It was hard keeping track of twenty something players other than those he kept close.

“Mick, next rotation, you take on Fael, Brooker and Hollander to start. I'm keeping Roberts benched, he looks like he's got some kinda ankle issues so you got Harley. I'll be substituting you _all_ at some point, so keep your eyes out for the changes,” Thompson said as Mickey readied to go back out, watching with a hiss as Bart was slammed into the wall right in front of them and subsequently started a fist-fight, Seth and Greg diving in with Finnish players to break it apart as the clock stopped, the referees looking most unhappy as they shot over. “I didn't expect a fuckin' fight from _him_ , Jesus. Senlintsky!” Thompson banged on the glass wall, “ _what the fucking hell_?!”

Bart was wrenched out of his fight with a bloodied nose and his opponent sporting a fat lip, spitting out the blood. Drawing blood always ended with a boxing and Mickey nodded resignedly as Bart and the other player were sent off to their boxes for five minutes each.

“I'm going,” Mickey said as Thompson turned to him with his mouth open, already pre-empting his coach as he took off his guards. Thompson simply clapped his shoulder and cheered him on as Mickey took to the ice for the last five minutes of the second third, bracing himself to fight for possession of the puck as the whistle went and, as he snatched it and shot it to Seth, he took off with renewed energy. He wasn't needed to defend as David and Greg were still on the ice so, he was a forward for a bit, more so playing captain.

“Greg, stay close to Oliver, yeah?”

“Boss!”

Mickey shot around David, “Rail on a fucker who tries it. Don't fuck about.”

“Never do, boss,” David winked, re-situating his gum shield as Mickey threw himself into reclaiming the puck. He managed to spin around a fast moving Finnish player and take it back, skating as fast as he could towards the goal and flicked his stick hard, scoring by a hair as the whistle went.

“Yes!” Mickey cheered, punching the air and rolling his eyes as some smart-assed fucker thought playing _Hey! Mickey!_ Would be funny. It rallied the crowd nevertheless as Mickey went off, ignoring the whooping catcalls and whistles while sitting to get more water. The last third wasn't half as easy, Finland upping their fight to the point where barely anyone got near any goal and more fights broke out, more players were substituted and boxed. Mickey was sweating up a storm as he narrowly avoided being crushed against the wall by two Finnish towers gunning for him while he tried to pass the puck to Louie. Louie snatched it and was instantly taken out, going down hard and clacking his helmet off the ice with a sharp yell and a stunted gasp. Mickey knew that sound, knowing Louie as he did and having heard him do it a few times before, he frantically waved his arms, calling for a stop as he dropped his stick threw himself across the gap on his knees.

“Lou? Louie, you hear me in there bud?” he bent over Louie's still body and listened for breathing as best he could with the noise going on, tearing off his gloves to stuff his fingers inside the cage of Louie's face-guard, feeling for warmth coming from his nose. “Oh _fuck_ , oh shit, you fucking dare, Fael, I swear to God!” he cursed, Milo now on Louie's other.

“He out cold?”

Mickey hummed and shook his head, blinking back the stinging in his eyes, “Swallowed the fucking shield!”

“Oh shit, not again,” Milo tore off his own gloves and used them to bracket Louie's neck while Mickey shakily got the helmet's straps undone. Mickey numbly heard Jake behind him calling for a medic, talking to the referee and assuring him that Mickey knew what he was doing. Mickey knew he shouldn't be doing what he was without a neck brace or something, but Louie wasn't breathing; Louie would do the same, he kept telling himself that as he gently took off the helmet with Milo holding his friend's neck as still as he could. The Finnish player who had taken Louie out knelt by his feet, holding Louie's ankles together, hiding the sharp blades between his knees carefully.

“It was a basic tackle. I didn't mean to do this. I didn't mean to knock him out, just-”

“S'OK, really is. Part of the game. He went over backwards, s'all there is to it. Unfortunate circumstances. Don't worry, Mick has him,” Milo reassured the guy as Mickey fussed and pulled Louie's mouth open, seeing the guard lodged right in the back. The guard rarely got swallowed unless they moved them around their teeth at the wrong time but Louie had a wide mouth as it was, and he had a stupid knack for yelling out whenever he went over backwards; the force of his head jolting off the floor combined with him opening his mouth up usually ended with him choking. Purely unfortunate, Mickey agreed. He needn't scream at the Finnish guy, it wasn't his fault and he _was_ trying to help.

“On his side, like you're putting him the recovery position 'cause I need to get my fingers in his mouth. Careful, guys,” Mickey ordered, fingers ready to delve into Louie's mouth the moment he had his face turned down and, carefully, as soon as he could, Mickey hooked them in and fished out the shield quickly, rolling Louie back onto his back gently to breathe life into him as the medics skated across the ice and the arena dulled down into a quiet murmur of worry and curiosity. Mickey kept up with breathing air into his friend's lungs while a medic took up the chest compressions and the other ordered the stretcher out. It didn't take too much effort, or swearing on Mickey's part, before Louie was coughing and groaning. “Thank fucking God!” Mickey crowed, moving away as the medics took over, the arena cheering along with the rest of the players on and off the rink, knowing Louie was all right.

“Fuck, scared me half to death,” Milo blew out through the ring of his mouth as Mickey heaved in air, watching his best friend get carted off and out of sight, grinning like he hadn't just been a little bit dead.

“No half to death here, Hollander, scared my life outta my fuckin toes, Jesus,” Mickey laughed, slipping his gloves back on as the referee came over. “My spectre is following the idiot, swear it.”

“Are you stable to play?”

“Yeah, yep, no worries here,” Mickey assured the ref and threw himself into the final few minutes of play, pitying the Finnish player as he was sent off the ice and benched by his coach. Louie's accident seemed to have had an ill-desired effect on the Finnish team as they were not as hard-ball nor as daring and ended up losing by three goals as the US team had fought back with everything they had, and if it was for Louie, nobody really mentioned it.

 

“He's gone to medical to be assessed and will most likely be sent to the hospital for observation after a smack that hard. I'm going with him,” Thompson said as they left the arena, Mickey nodding along. They'd done their basic celebrating in the locker room, subdued without Louie, Thompson hugging them all and yelling about how beautiful they'd played, how proud he was, quietly praising Mickey after he'd been loudly cheered at for saving Louie's life.

“Mind calling me as soon as you know anything?” Mickey asked, waving absently to his dads where they sat on a bench outside, watching quietly.

“Of course, kid,” Thompson said and then clapped his hands, calling the whole team to attention. “Celebrate all you want tonight but _no_ drinking! Under no circumstances should you find yourself with alcohol in your hands or down your throats. The next match is in two hours so you'll be finding out later just who you're playing in two days in the semi's. It's practice, practice, practice here on out. Got that, ladies?”

“Coach,” they all agreed, saluting the man as he jogged off in the other direction in search of Louie.

“Catch up with you guys later, OK?” Mickey called to the team as they bumbled off, waving at him and his dads with smiles. “Hey,” Mickey breathed as soon as Dean and Richard had him in a tight hug.

“Damn proud of you right now,” Dean mumbled against Mickey's shoulder. “He OK?”

Mickey rubbed at his nose as he was released, “Yeah. He's OK. See his smile as he got taken off? Made of tough stuff, that one.”

“Thank fuck I keep on with the 'first-aid shit', huh? Doesn't seem so ball-breaking now does it? Huh? Huh?” Dean teased, fending off the worry Mickey felt creeping into his system.

"Don't think it had anythin' to do with his lucky underpants, then?" Mickey teased and Dean dug around in his pocket, serious and like he'd lost something and then bam, hit Mickey with a ripe middle finger and a sarcastic grin. 

“Uh, what's this?” Richard said in a tone that suggested his was far too happy and curious about whatever he was looking at over Mickey's shoulder. Turning, Mickey felt his face crack into a smile because Mandy was wandering over with a gangly friend at her side. So his face was mostly hidden by a thin scarf and he had on sunglasses and a beanie hat but Mickey knew that walk.

“Nice game there, bro,” Mandy said as she slung her arm around Mickey's neck to hug him. “Sweet goal too! Real proud of you. How's Louie?”

“He's fine, just choked himself like he always fuckin' does,” Mickey said, focussed wholly on Ian who was ducking his face, no doubt smiling like an idiot. “You feelin' better there, twinkle toes?”

“Just bruising, Mick. Been off the painkillers all day,” Ian said softly, falling into Mickey's hug like he always did, gripping him tight and sure and burying his face in Mickey's neck, quietly humming. “You won and saved a life. What a hero. _My_ hero, hmm? Proud of you. _Really_ fucking proud,” Ian whispered, just for Mickey's ears while he squeezed him, letting go even though Mickey could feel he didn't want to. Had they been alone, they'd not be letting go for a long while.

“Mickey,” Richard sing-songed, too excited about the arrival of a certain guy. “Introductions, kid. Raised you properly, you know,” his pops winked and Mickey groaned a little, turning to Ian with a wink as the skater took off his glasses and tugged down the scarf. Jesus, his face was colourful and angry and all Mickey wanted to do was hide him away and take care of him, sooth his hurts and kiss him into a pile of softness.

“Ah-eesh, that looks bad,” Dean hissed, his paramedic trying to break out but he held himself still.

“Uhm, I bruise like a peach,” Ian offered with an awkward grin, having no idea who the heck he was looking at. _Peaches would be mush after a smash like that, Jesus H, the fuck are skaters made of?_ Dean breathed and Richard gave a _bones of steel_ in the deepest, most drawled voice he could as Mickey caught Ian's attention.

“I know I never really mentioned these guys before, but they are special and I keep my cards close to my chest, and though you know why, I should have mentioned them at least,” Mickey said bashfully, unconsciously standing as close to Ian as he could.

Ian smiled down at him and ran his hand over Mickey's forearm quickly, a gesture not going unnoticed by the hawk eyed pair in front of them, or Mandy if her gooey sigh said anything, “Don't need to explain yourself to me. I've told you that I get it.” _Seriously? Is he real?!_ Mickey heard Dean gush, trying to calm himself by turning to look up at the arenas and the clouds.

Mickey felt himself flush hot and sniffed, trying to fight the little smile toying with his mouth. “Ian, these two giant fucking dorks are my parents,” he said jovially, gesturing at his dads one by one, “This is dad, Dean, and pops, Richard. Dads, you know who he is...”

“Two dads, huh?” Ian popped up an eyebrow like he wasn't believing Mickey at all, teasing him, and then he broke out his sunniest smile and stuck his hand out. “Pleasure to meet you both. Mickey's told me nothing about you.”

Dean took it first, grinning, “Pleasure is ours, Ian.”

“Sure is!” Richard beamed, “I have been waiting for this moment. Good grip, lad.”

“Thanks?” Ian chuckled, keeping the handshake for as long as Richard deemed fit, only taking his hand back once it'd been fully released. Smart guy. Mickey shifted nervously, just waiting for either parent to drop the ball and it was only a matter of time.

“Proud of him?” Richard asked and Mickey, Dean and Mandy all rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Richard was blunt, thought he had a heart of gold and meant well, but he always had his children's well-being up high on a pedestal. Now it was all up to Ian to defend himself because even if Mickey stood in the way, Richard would simply go around him.

Ian sucked in his top lip and barely flinched a eye, “Of course. Who wouldn't be proud of someone giving their best? Wouldn't matter if he'd lost either, the feeling wouldn't change. Never mind the life saving stint he pulled too... you know, he's got his heart in the right place and I can't explain just how happy of and for him I am right now. Proud doesn't quiet cover it, sir, if you don't mind me saying?”

Mickey's eyebrows shot up into his hairline with stunned amusement, watching between Ian's open sincerity, his soft smile, to Richard's blank expression, blinking at the young man who was pushing his height and given how far apart they stood, Ian had his cool gaze levelled with Richard's green stare, sure and calm and not even a little bit perturbed by this dressing down he was being subjected to. If anything, he looked like he was enjoying himself. Mickey raised an eyebrow and smirked at Dean who was trying not to grin.

“You're aware of his past?” Mickey very nearly opened his mouth to protest that because _what the fuck, pops_? And Dean got the first syllable of Richard's name out before Ian spoke up.

“Yes, I'm aware of it although I don't see how it should even figure into what we are doing together because it's not my business to know unless Mickey wants to talk to me about it. He knows I'm nothing like that and that I understand him because of it, that there is no judgement from my corner and never will be,” Ian smiled. “If I need to reassure him for every day that I am with him that I get why certain things bother him or upset him, or if my behaviour is causing him discomfort, he knows that he only needs to say and I'll do what I can to upend that and make him feel as comfortable as I possibly can, even if it means that I have to walk away from him. His happiness and well-being is paramount to me, what I gain from that comes second. No matter what happens, I will never treat him with any less respect and care, love or dignity than he deserves, Sir, believe me or not, but that's what matters to me. Mickey's comfort and his happiness is foremost. Your son deserves kindness and loyalty and I will try my best to give him everything he deserves, and not a drop less, if he will give me the time to do it. Much as I know you want me to ask your permission, I'm not going to because he's an adult and can decide for himself. The only thing I'll ever need your permission for is his hand and you'll need to wait a while for that.”

Mickey barely saw Richard gape at Ian, Dean making some kind of dying animal sound with Mandy's _oh my God_ of shock because Mickey couldn't contain himself and took Ian's hand, planting a kiss to the corner of his mouth, wanting his lips but he wasn't sure of the bruising and they were kind of in public. It was quiet where they were but still. _This guy_. Seriously.

Still, stunned as he was, Richard folded his arms and narrowed his eyes as Mickey stepped back, ready to jump in now if his dad decided to keep on being _scary_ , “I really don't think I can fault this one, Deanie.”

“I wouldn't try looking for faults, Richard, someone might take you down,” Dean laughed, pushing his husband a little as he nodded at Mickey. He totally would take him on if he was going to be a pain in the ass some more. Usually it was just simple questions like, _you gonna treat him good? Take him out? Kiss him with no tongues? Keep it above the waist until he's ready?!_ Kind of late for most of those, Mickey noted, and Richard was probably being a bit harder given what kind of relationship he'd been in before, not that this was a relationship... but if it was, now they knew just what kind of guy had Mickey falling over his feet and smiling like a stoner most of the time. Mickey could understand his dads, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Protective nerds. “That was entirely less painful than I had thought it was going to be! Ian, don't mind him, he's just... well. _A dad_. Mickey is precious cargo, I'm sure you understand that?”

“Entirely!” Ian chuckled, shaking Richard's hand and throwing himself into the hug Richard pulled him into. “I'm a little surprised my sister didn't do the same thing to Mickey but then, I'm not her _son_ and she is good at scoping someone out without more than a look. She knows a good one when she sees him,” Ian winked at Mickey and snorted at the eye roll he got.

“Why'd you gotta be gay, huh?” Mandy bemoaned, looking up at Ian sceptically. “You're so fucking nice. I'll convert you!”

“Bitch, no. I will cart your ass off to New Zealand,” Mickey warned and got a tongue and middle finger for it.

“Hey, I like him, we get on well. Mick doesn't deserve you, you're wasted on him. Come over to the dark side, padawan.”

“Nope,” Ian giggled, hooking his arm around Mickey's shoulders. “Kinda like it here,” he winked to which Mandy put up her hands, accepting defeat while Dean and Richard sharing very parental glances, grinning and winking at each other.

“C'mon! Let's go back to the resort, kiddies!” Dean clapped his hands together and turned his head towards the station. “We got like, an hour on that, plenty of get-to-know-each-other time and I promise we won't badger you any more, Ian.”

“Nah, we won't. More than satisfied,” Richard agreed, scruffing up Mickey's flat helmet hair. “I like this kid, Mickey. He's ballsy and skates like a dream. Seems to like you too for some reason so, unless he does something that warrants me kicking his ass back to the US, I think we'll get on just fine!” Richard chirped, Mickey hissed _shut the hell up_ , Dean groaned _for fuck sake Dickie_ while Mandy and Ian laughed good naturedly. Mickey knew for a fact that Richard wasn't done, but he was most likely going to nag Mickey next, when he got him alone at some point, just to make sure his son was sure of what he was doing, the usual chit-chat. Christ. There was a headache brewing in the back of his skull and it had 'dad' written all over it, though which dad was going to set it off, he didn't know; Richard was one thing, but Dean was entirely different and he was already being sappy and over-bearing with his little smiles and squeaks every time Ian brushed Mickey's hand or smiled at him. Fuck sake, who was the child here, really?

“Real proud of you,” Ian kissed into Mickey's hair as they stood on the platform, hidden away by a drinks machine and blatantly obvious _trying-not-to-be-obvious_ dads. “And your dads are pretty awesome. Never felt so fuckin' scared of someone in all my life, Jesus does he love you... except you. You scare the shit out of me, but in the best way,” he grinned and Mickey hummed, stretching up to yank Ian down, tugging his scarf into place a little better.

“Am I 'good grief'?” he wondered as he looked into bright, cheeky green eyes. They were very green today and Mickey wanted to keep on gazing because how many flecks and shades could he see?

Ian huffed a laugh and winked slowly, “Better than that, moo. _So_ much better than that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... thanks for reading :} coulda been better. You know, I think i have a strong problem with wanting to write these two fucking happy, i just can't help it!! I am compelled to fix them and do it all the damn time, I'm sorry it gets fluffy more than it does steamy but hell, I LOVE THEM HAPPY AND SQUISHY and i have a problem *calls GAA helpline* yes, hello? I am a gallavich addict and i can't stop writing happiness... no, not 'a penis', HAPP EE NESS. yes, truly, it is a terrible thing
> 
> ... OH MY GOD LUKE IS AN ASSHOLE LIKE NO ASSHOLE EVER ASSHOLED, I HATE HIM AND I CREATED HIM WTH
> 
> anyway hehe oh i totally took kapake in hospital and those hallucinations were mine, no pain at all but damn, the visions and the fear and fucking H. I can't take it any more because i'm so intolerant of it, it's a dangerous thing for me now a days codeine, deadly, even. ANY WAY! hope you liked it, even with the angst/not angst of Luke and Louie :} someone had to get hurt and i didn't wanna pick on Moo this time.


	14. It Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey goes to dinner with his family and they have a chat (grilling) that leads Mickey to tell Ian about his attacks. Ian gives Mickey something he hadn't realised he had lost and needed back in order to gain steady footing again. Then Ian leaves and Mickey doesn't like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck I am so sorry this took me so long! I uh, i don't really know what to say other than this is an emotional chapter and i always fear emotional things because i swear i can't really get it across very well. I hope i did OK though, and that you guys enjoy :)  
> WARNING: swearing, grilling dads, emotional things, sex, Mickey's heart on a plate with a fork in it,.... poor Moo, it's all your head baby. I love you all, your comments and love have kept me going through this toughie and I have been very poorly too so they've kept my spirits right up. Thank you!! (any mistakes are mine cos i couldn't be arsed to look it over once i'd done it. If it makes no sense, that's me too. Was a tricky one)

 

Ian had left Mickey with his dads after they had gotten back to the freezing air of the resort; he'd also snatched Mickey off-guard and dragged him into a smoking shelter, made sure it was empty – _Can I kiss you?_ He'd asked softly and Mickey had rolled his eyes because it still threw him a bit that Ian always asked first. _You sure this ain't gonna hurt your face?_ Mickey had wondered and with a slow smile, Ian had kissed his lips sweetly, then hard and devouring with long licks of his tongue, kissed him until his knees buckled and his chest ached from air deprivation. His sure hands had gripped Mickey's hips, travelling sporadically up to cup his jaw or grip his neck and down to his biceps to grip tight through his coat. He had pressed all of his body against Mickey, holding him close, keeping him warm despite his kisses and touches and little soft pleased noises sending Mickey's temperature dangerously high. Once Mickey had been reduced to nothing but a grabbing, moaning, lax idiot in his arms, Ian had grinned, winked and left him there to smoke himself into a state of normalcy, while Dean and Richard had stood a few feet away trying to work out where they were going to take Mickey and Mandy to eat.

The food was nice in the Spanish eatery Dean had found and Mickey enjoyed his tapas and a hand-made pizza so big, the plate had trouble holding it. He'd stuffed himself stupid while listening to Richard explain something at work, a new building he was designing, Dean pipping in with something smart or clever every now and then and Mickey was content to just watch them interact, easy conversation and little smiles and touches. Mandy was in a similar state, just simply watching with a dopey, soft smile playing with her mouth.

“Too fucking cute,” she'd muttered when Richard had turned to Dean at his side and had finger fed him something off his plate with a _try it, you might just like it babe._ Mickey had to agree.

“So, Mick,” the tone Dean used made Mickey stop mid-chew and raise an eyebrow. He knew that tone. He was, quite possibly, about to get the questioning of his life. “Real nice here, isn't it?”

Mickey swallowed and narrowed his gaze, “Yeah, in that frozen kind of way.”

Dean hummed and speared rice with his fork, “I like it. You know, I think we should go out another night before we all have to go home.”

Mandy chuckled and hissed, “Oh boy,” into her glass before gulping it down. Richard leant back in his chair and eyed his love with a smirk.

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed with a nod, still on high alert. “Look, fuck knows you don't do small talk with anyone, let alone one of your kids. Just spit it out, whatever it is, 'cause you're makin' me nervous and it's kinda painful to watch you try and act all nonchalant and stuff.”

“Hah!” Richard blurted, dissolving into a little giggle fit. “He's right though. It's _real_ obvious you wanna grill him.”

Dean snorted and dropped his fork to fold his hands and prop his chin with them, playing with his wedding band, winking at Mickey as a great big, child-like grin split his face, “You really like that kid, huh?”

Mickey bobbed his head again and licked along the back of his teeth to keep from smiling, fingering the straw sitting in his virgin mojito, “Uh, should think that's a massive understatement.”

“Whoa,” Mandy put her hand out and swallowed whatever she had in her mouth. “ _You love him_?”

“Holy shit, who said that?” Mickey asked incredulously. “Dad said 'really like' and it's kinda fucking obvious I _seriously_ like him? Like, not some kinda crush going on here, no like-liking or anything any more. Really like is a fucking understatement, OK? _Jesus_. Nobody said love.”

“Want a shovel for that ditch you just threw yourself into?” Richard asked flatly, eyebrows up while Mickey ducked to hide his rapidly heating face. They all snorted and chuckled at him and his under-breath bitching.

“It's sweet. I haven't met someone who is on exactly the same page as Mickey before. Usually they're either way ahead or behind, but this kid? Exactly the same page. To the letter,” Dean said around his glass, sipping his wine with another damn wink in Mickey's direction. “We've seen you bestowing kisses and touches and the hugs you guys share are just heartbreaking to watch. Guh – you make my heart weep.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Mickey groaned into his hands, shaking his head. “Jesus, you sap.”

“Yep. So, kissed him properly yet?” Dean asked and Mickey pinched his thigh to stop himself from going red and smiling. “We know your kissing rule, or quirk, so I gotta know if you've finally found someone who you're content with and happy to let kiss you, as well as _give_ kisses to?”

“Why is that important?” Mandy wondered as she pushed chicken into her mouth.

Richard cracked his knuckles before reaching for olives, “You know your brother. Kissing is a big deal, not just a 'can they kiss' or not thing, more of a trust issue. It's a personal thing and if they abuse it, Mickey shuts down and yes, you can fucking give me shitty looks boy, but you know for a fact that's why you test them like that. One kiss and if it's bad, bye. A few and if they keep on stealing them or dishing them out when you're not happy to or find it uncomfortable, again, bye. Any that you've stayed with have been the ones who aren't for kissing at all. Something to do with closing your eyes. Trust, like I said. You know it.”

“Last one being an exception,” Dean said lowly against his fingers, watching Mickey closely while he was being discussed like he wasn't even there. Mickey shrugged regardless, agreeing because why would he argue with the obvious? Especially since he'd taken either dad to therapy, had talks with them, told them why he felt he had to do certain things. They understood him completely and didn't judge him, never would.

“Huh,” Mandy grunted, totally not bothered at all and Mickey was grateful for that. His quirks weren't half as bad as some of hers, so if she kept on eating her chicken and cheese without a word, he'd not bring them up and throw them in her face.

Dean sniffed and eyed Mickey for a while before edging forward and softly asking, “Kissed Ian?”

“Yes,” Mickey brought his gaze up from his glass and tongued his cheek. Dean waited patiently, barely moving while Richard picked up some more pitted olives and chunks of meat and cheeses from the tapas plate. Mickey smiled a little, shyly looking down at his plate, walking his fingers along the rim of the bowl of rice closest to him, “Every time I see him.”

“Holy shit!” Dean gasped, grinning and slamming his hands down on the table. “Oh, Mickey I'm so fucking happy right now! Oho, oh my _God_!” he sang, biting his fist much to Mickey's everlasting eye roll.

“Why?” Richard asked as Dean reached over the table to plant a solid kiss to Mickey's forehead. “I mean, I really like the kid but you know, you barely know him?”

“Louie,” Mandy shrugged, smiling softly when Mickey tipped his head towards her in a _she's right_ gesture. “I mean, Louie is addicted to figure skating. He says it's all for the game but it isn't. I swear he wanted to be a figure skater when he was younger but he's just too bulky. Anyway, he chirps on and on about the guys he meets when he goes to view their sets and stuff and I'm guessing he met Ian a few times?” she asked, looking a Mickey while piling cheese and fresh salsa onto toasted bread.

“Yeah. He knew who he was way before I did. Would have told me if he was a giant douche – had nothing but nice things to say about him,” Mickey said and adamantly kept it at that. His dads didn't need to know Louie had considered bending over for Ian before the guy had spotted Mickey. Probably still would, and would take the ass kicking for it. “He noticed Ian's interest before I did and pushed me towards him with his little praising remarks and stuff. If Louie likes someone, then I gotta trust in that. He's rarely wrong. He hated Luke the second he saw him and I, uh, I didn't listen. Anyway, I got to scope Ian out a few times before he kissed me so... yeah. He's a decent, open and honest guy. He doesn't judge me. He doesn't pressure me. He fucking asks me if he can kiss me _every single_ time, well, outside of a hotel room anyway. Even then I can see it written across his face.”

“You kinda just _know_ when you meet the right kind of person,” Dean smiled softly and Richard sat back, munching something in thought. “Judging from the stupid smile that broke your face when you mentioned a hotel room, you've had sex with him,” Dean said. It wasn't a question. Mickey choked on his gulp of minty mojito.

“Jesus, subtly is _not_ your forte,” he gasped as he wiped at his stinging eyes. Mandy cackled in her seat.

“That's a big fat yes then.”

Mickey felt his neck go hot so he slid down in his chair a little, “Take that how you want to.”

“That's what he said!” Mandy howled, like she couldn't have kept it in if she had a clamp across her mouth. Mickey threw a bread roll at her and swore blind.

“Hey! No, we're not gonna resort to throwing food and cussing each other out in a damn restaurant,” Dean warned. “Wait until you get outside. Then you can kill each other. Not in here, too many witnesses.”

“Dean!” Richard snapped. “Regardless of plotting mass murder,” Richard went on, eyeing them all, “Is he considerate?”

Mickey stared and rubbed at his forehead because seriously? It felt ridiculously hot in there all of a sudden, “Yes. Doesn't push me, doesn't force me, adapts to whatever I want. Would back off if I asked. You've heard him yourselves for goodness sake. The guy is chill, understands and shit.”

Richard put his hand on Dean's shoulder and smiled brightly, “Good. As long as you're happy with this arrangement or whatever it is you've got going on, then all we ask is that you're smart and careful, like always. You're an adult, you do what you like. You're happiness is what matters.” Richard gave a few bobs of his head like he had something else to add and Mickey waited him out, watching his pops grab a bread stick and snap it viscously, pointing one half at Mickey, “If he fucks you over though, I _will_ kill him. You didn't let me near that dick-stain from before, and yes, I know he's here and _damn_ do I wanna bump into him. But Ian? He seems nice and if he's pulled wool over my eyes and hurts you? Dead meat. Dean knows where he comes from.”

“Beg your pardon?” Mickey sat forward quickly. “How? I don't even know that.”

“How?” Mandy snorted. “He's in the public eye. His information is on a damn wikipedia page for fuck sake, though, not his most recent residence. You've been seeing him and yet you've not thought to even ask him where he lives? What were you gonna do once the games finished? Just part ways? Bah! Like that'd work out well. Asshat.”

Dean looked nervous for a minute as Mickey landed him with a curious stare, “Look I, uh, I may have met him once before? I don't know where he lives now, but as a kid I know he came from the same area as you guys.”

Mickey's eyebrows shot into his hair and he tipped his head down while his eyes never left his dads face, “You didn't think to ever mention that you met him before?”

“No, well, I didn't recognise the adult for the _kid_ I'd seen. It was only earlier with his face all busted up that it sparked off a memory and rather than embarrass the guy, because honestly, if I had called him on it, it would have put him right on the spot and that's not a nice thing to do. It's not like it's a happy memory either, Mick, it was back before I was called to your house. He had it rough, everyone in that neighbourhood did, but I gotta say, out of everyone, you guys had it worst. His family would have probably come in second if there was ever a race to see who had it worst around there,” Dean shook his head lightly and reached for his glass.

“So he's south side like us?” Mickey asked and Mandy made a noise, swallowing her food quickly.

“No. Well, we aren't now. Neither is he, you can see that,” she said as she pushed her plate away. “Look, he grew up there for a little bit, that's what his page says anyway. Moved away the year we did, got into a good school and caught the attention of the coach he has now. Like you, got his break.”

Dean hummed as Richard ran his fingers around the shell of his husband's ear, “You were already so close, and yet, so far away. It's like fate!”

Mickey groaned but smiled nonetheless, “ _Christ._ ”

“Hey, I believe in these kind of things,” Dean cheekily winked. “I'll give you a brief tell-all about when I met him; I was called to a house near to your, uh, old one. The mother had cut her wrists and was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. I get there with my partner and there's a stunned group in the house and one in kid particular, this little orange haired boy with a busted up face, was standing in the middle of the kitchen in a daze. I went straight to him while my partner assessed the situation. Someone had thought to wrap her cuts tight and keep the woman calm. It was an attention thing, I believe, because she should have bled to death before we got there. This kid though, he just stared at me, through me, like he was somewhere else entirely. I asked him about his face and he said 'it looks worse than it is, Sir. I bruise like a peach' so, there's the bit I recognised earlier. Fucking awful thing to witness. I always wondered what happened to that family. I'm real happy now, knowing he got out and got a chance to live.”

Mickey pinched his nose and blinked long and hard, “Fucking hell. He never said.”

“It's all over his wikipedia page so it's kind of common knowledge nowadays,” Mandy said softly. “Doesn't matter. Past is past. He's happy and he's here, that's all you should be concerned about. It's not like you've both gone and spun the tales of yore to each other yet, is it? No big deal if he hasn't said anything.”

“She's right, it's not a big deal,” Dean agreed, “I just remembered something is all. Speaking of traumatic life events son; does he know you have panic and anxiety attacks yet?”

“Uh, no,” Mickey answered with a bite to his lip.

“Don't you think you should tell him?” Richard wondered with a soft frown. Mickey shrugged and his pops sighed, “Look, kid. You seem to wanna keep on with whatever it is you're doing and dad's already calmed you twice since you got here. Luke is walking around, there's gonna be another trigger somewhere and I know it's an uncomfortable thing for you to talk about but, think of it like this – if you're out with him, and only him, and something sets you off, what's he going to do? Would he know to take you away from the source and keep your focus on him? Would he know how to bring you back down steadily? If that doesn't work, would he know to dial Dean rather than me? Would he know who to dial at all? Not like you can even speak when a bad one takes you down, so he'd be left in the creek without a paddle. You should tell him.”

Mandy hummed her agreement and bumped their shoulders, “View it as an allergy. You'd tell him if you were severely allergic to something, wouldn't you? I mean, imagine if you were allergic to peanuts or something, and you carried an EpiPen with you, I should think you'd mention to him that you had the allergy and what to do if you came into contact with nuts because when the shock hits, you can't do shit. It's kind of similar, so think of it like that. You're not allergic to peanuts, no, but triggering situations instead.”

Dean beamed at his daughter for a second, “Clever analogy.”

“You don't think he'll freak and run?” Mickey asked quietly, feeling his chest go tight and his hands sweat.

“Hey, hey, _easy_ Mickey,” Dean reached out to grab his twitchy hand on the table. “I can't say if he will or not, but you told me you spoke to him about your worries and look what he did – adapted. So, if he flees, Dickie will hurl his ass down the mountainside. I honestly don't think that'll happen though, son. He doesn't strike me as an asshole.”

Mickey huffed a little laugh and felt his shoulders lighten, his whole body warming at the thought of Ian's sweet smile and his soft touches, “Yeah, he's a good guy. Kinda want to go see him now, if you don't mind me leaving?”

Richard giggled a little while Dean pulled over a dessert menu and eyed it. Mandy sucked on her straw and paid no attention to anything past the pastry list on her own menu. Silence dragged on for ages and Mickey shifted in his seat, agitated and confused. “Still here?” Dean wondered without looking up. Mickey was out of his seat and snatching up his jacket before anyone could blink, kissing Mandy's head before putting himself between his dad's shoulders and squeezing them tight, kissing each cheek.

“Fucking love you guys, seriously,” he mumbled, one last tight squish of his arms and then he was high-tailing it out of the joint, out into the chilly air of the lower resort. Mickey pulled on his hat and zipped his collar up high so he could duck way his face, power walking to the ski-lifts in order to get to the hotel as quick as he could without running himself into the snowy floor. He managed to grab a seat by himself and clung on for dear life, keeping his eyes on the top of the slope without daring to inch them anywhere else.

“Mick!” Louie cheered as soon as he spotted him, standing near the hotel's main doors with Jake. “Where's good to eat man?”

“Uh, there's a pizzeria down there,” Mickey thumbed in the direction of the place Ian had taken him to get pizza from. Jake hummed and shuffled his feet while Louie looked like he'd been hit with an epiphany.  
  
“Where you off to, man?” Jake wondered and Mickey frowned at him – something was a funny colour here, and it didn't sit with him.

“The fuck's up with you two?” He hissed and then he shot them both an angry glare. “You dare fuckin' tell me you're high. _Dare_.”

“Nah man,” Louie snorted. “We aren't _that_ brainless. Just, uh, we had a fight earlier and it's awkward.”

Mickey didn't believe that bullshit for a second but, on taking in a deep breath, he couldn't smell any pot so he dropped the high subject and turned to go inside, “Sort it out. None of this shit follows you into practice, OK?”

“Boss,” Jake smiled and Louie grinned, kissing Mickey's hand before he could escape entirely. Mickey flipped him off and concentrated on getting to the tenth floor quickly, avoiding the elevators in favour of jogging up the stairwell. What he didn't expect was to push the tenth floor door open and run straight into Ian himself, barely catching a hold of the guy's jacket to keep from going ass over head down the stairs.

“Oh, shit Mickey,” Ian laughed, hands flying to hold on to Mickey's elbows. “Was just coming to see if you were back, actually.”

“Great minds think alike, apparently,” Mickey chuckled and allowed Ian to take his hand and drag him through the door, walking backwards to keep his sunny smile on Mickey.

Ian winked and kept his back-peddling up until he reached his own door, “Missed your great mind. I know, it's been like, three hours, but you know what? Don't care. Three hours, three days, it's all time. I think my real problem was kissing you.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey sassed as Ian unlocked the door and let him go in first.

“Yeah. I mean, I was fine with being away from you before I decided it would be a good idea to kiss you into a puddle as a goodbye gesture,” Ian said mildly, dropping his key card on the kitchen counter. “But it left me needing more. Never a good thing, to go without something you need. So, in saying that, can I kiss you again, please?”

“Jesus, such a soft dork,” Mickey shook his head fondly as Ian took two strides to get into his personal space. “Uh, I need to talk to you first.”

Those words never fail to dump ice water on someone but for some reason, Ian didn't seem to take them like that. If anything, the guy took a slight step back and raised his brow in question, a small, curious smile on his face, “Sure. Go sit down, I'll put that coffee thing on. Just... let it out, whatever it is you wanna talk to me about.”

Mickey slowly peeled off his outwear and laid the items on one of the sofas and sat on the other, keeping Ian in sight as he played in the kitchen, Mickey tying his fingers in knots. “I got uh, something pointed out to me and uh, I need to tell you something about me that you should know, well, in case anything happens so that you know what to do.”

“OK,” Ian dragged out, fussing with the machine for a second. Once the thing was humming away and spitting out coffee, the skater turned and pressed against the counter, leaning over it to give Mickey a soft smile and his complete attention. “You allergic to something?”

“Hah, no,” Mickey snorted. “I uh. Why is this so fuckin' hard to get out?” he swore at himself and cracked his knuckles, looking down at his feet. Without warning, Mickey's hands were taken in large, warm ones and his gaze was brought up to focus on Ian kneeling on the floor next to him.

“Hey,” he cooed, “You don't have to say anything if you really don't want to. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”

“I have anxiety and panic attacks,” Mickey blurted, eyes going wide as Ian froze up a bit.

The redhead watched him for a moment, blinked and then cupped Mickey's cheek, “I appreciate you telling me. You're telling me because you think you might have one at some point or have you had some already and you want me to know what to do in case it's with me?”

“You wouldn't set one off-”

“No, no. That's not what I'm saying, moo,” Ian smiled. “I know what they are, I have a had few in my life, nothing to suggest a disorder or anything, but I know they are crippling and there's certain ways to deal with them.”

Mickey felt his chest loosen up as he stared into green eyes that were watching him with nothing but calm kindness, “You've had some?”

“Oh yeah. Triggers like flying, deep water, oh I used to have them bad when I was younger, first starting out in events. The crowds used to frighten me into the floor. Not so much now though. Mine were fear related instances whereas yours are from something deeper, something that's part of you. I won't claim I understand how that works at all, because I don't, but if you want me to learn how to calm you down and keep you safe during an episode, then I'll listen to everything you need to tell me. If you put that much trust in me to keep you safe when you're vulnerable, then I will do whatever you need me to, to show you how much I cherish that trust. It's a big thing for you-”

Mickey rocked forward to kiss Ian's sweet bow mouth a few times in thanks, trying to convey his feelings because like hell could he say them out loud.

“Luke,” Mickey whispered when he pulled back and Ian narrowed his gaze a little.

“Does he set them off?”

“Kind of. Well, the first one I had here was after I saw him at the party and you appeared. Without realising it, you kept my focus and warded one. It came the day after, before we went for pizza, a combination of missing my parents and freaking out over a date because of the previous ones I'd had,” Mickey said quietly and Ian planted a kiss to the hand he still held.

“Ah, Luke. Had any others?”

“One,” Mickey mumbled, not really wanting to admit this one at all but as he was getting it out and Ian had no trace of judgement or wariness on his face or written in his body language, Mickey ploughed on. “On the train the morning of your event. I uh, I saw your morning routine on youtube and saw you fall and I freaked out because I thought you'd been really, _really_ fucking hurt and then my head filled with images of you going to hospital or being taken where I couldn't get to and Jesus, Ian. I don't know where it came from, it just hit me in the middle of the fucking train.” He wasn't going to bring up what Luke had done the other night, not now. It didn't feel right to tell Ian that his ex had tried to choke him because what if Ian reacted badly and started yelling at him for not saying? He wouldn't do that. But what if he got upset because he hadn't been there to stop him? That wasn't fair to do to him, so Mickey stayed quiet. He didn't want to upset the guy, _ever._  

“What about the night nobody could get a hold of you?” Ian wondered with a shaky voice, gripping Mickey's hand tight, rubbing his thumb back and forth softly. He didn't say anything more on it, nothing about the freak out and Mickey was grateful for that, immensely so. It was embarrassing really, but Ian seemed to get that, as well as understanding why it happened in the first place.

“Mandy had told me our dads weren't coming. I knew they weren't, had known for months, but it still bothered me. I reckon the whole being away from home and missing them and getting bashed about, being tired and all of that, it just got on top of me and I hid away. No attacks, just... depressive, I guess. I get like that too, sometimes,” he admitted and Ian got up, making his way back to the kitchenette to finished the drinks off without a sound. Once he'd finished, shooting Mickey reassuring smiles the whole time, he brought the steaming cups over and sat next to Mickey on the sofa, hand on his thigh.

“You really didn't need to tell me anything, you know? But, thank you, for telling me what you have,” Ian said softly, his other hand coming up to stroke Mickey's jaw and down his neck lightly. “That's quite a brave thing to tell someone. Now, tell me what to do in case one hits and I'm there.”

“Uh, keep my focus. Breathe deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth and do it until I copy and then until I come out of it. If the place we're in is the trigger, take me away from it and start up the breathing, hold my hands, keep me looking at you. Talk about random shit, keep it up and it should pass off. If it's real bad, call my dad, Dean, not Richard, off my phone and tell him what's happening. He'll start singing down the line so just, uh, press it to my ear and I'll be out of the thing in no time,” Mickey assured, watching Ian dance his fingers all over his forearm and wrist bones, listening and humming as he took in the information.

“And if I can't get hold of him?”

Mickey sighed and closed him eyes, relaxing into the tapping of Ian's fingers, “Sing to me. Louie has only needed to do it three or four times and he can't sing for shit, but he tried. It worked too so uh, get as close to me as you can and sing into my ear that song from Charlie and the fucking chocolate factory.”

“The imagination song?” Ian chuckled and Mickey hummed.

“Dad started doing it just after we got taken into his care. It was the first thing he tried and it stuck because it worked like a fucking tranq dart.”

“If it works, it works,” Ian's lips found Mickey's temple and he kissed his words into his skin, “OK. I think I got you covered.”

Mickey blinked his eyes open and nudged Ian until he pulled back so he could look at him, “You don't mind?”

Ian frowned, “No. Why would I mind? Not like it's something you can help, now is it? I feel really fucking warmed by this actually, that you felt you could tell me and trust me with this part of you. I care about you and you being safe and happy and all that shit? That's what I mind.”

“Really?” Mickey whispered, his eyes stinging and his throat closing up around a thick lump of _where were you two years ago? Where?_ As Ian nodded and gave a sad looking smile of his own. “Fuck.”

“Hey, I got something to tell you and something to ask you,” Ian said quietly, taking Mickey's emotional state and turning it into something sweet with kisses all over his cheeks and jaw, stroking down his arms, twisting their fingers together.

“Shoot,” Mickey hummed, deflating into nothingness because of Ian and his magic hands.

“Well, tomorrow morning I'm off to do some press stuff in Seoul. I'll be gone for two days,” that hit Mickey really hard right in the middle of his chest, like Ian had actually punched him. He felt hot for a second and then freezing cold and he went stiff even though he tried so hard not to react in that way. Why was his body doing this to him? What the hell? “Hey, whoa. I'll be back, I promise. I'll call you and stuff, just try stopping me.”

“Don't,” Mickey swallowed and untangled their fingers to reach for his coffee, gulping the bitter stuff down even though it was trying to burn his throat open on its descent. The hell did this, this _panic_ , keep happening for? _Don't leave me._

“Mickey?”

“Just... fuck,” Mickey hissed, rubbing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. Why was the idea of Ian leaving him alone hell bent on wrecking him every single time? It was stupid. Ian was right next to him, living and breathing and looking like Mickey was about to fall through a crevice and vanish forever.

“OK, OK. Moo? Look at me. Look at me, now Mickey, right here, look,” Ian begged, taking the cup away and grabbing Mickey's hands. “I'll be back before you notice I'm gone. I promise I'll be back. I don't want to go, I don't want to leave you either, fuck you gotta believe I'm not just saying that, OK?”

“I don't know why this happens every time- it's not like-” Mickey choked. There was no simpler term for it; he literally choked on his words. What was he supposed to blurt? _This happens every time I think you're going away? This happens because I might feel something seriously strong and I don't want to let go of it? I don't know how or when, but I've come to need you like fucking air?_ What the hell was he supposed to say that didn't make him sound like a love-sick idiot who had fallen too far too soon. Mickey chanced landing his evasive gaze on Ian for a second and it broke him. The guy was fighting glassy eyes, clenching his jaw and swallowing repeatedly. Same boat.

“Hey,” Ian breathed, stroking his fingers down Mickey's jaw to his chin and back again. “I'm right here.”

Mickey nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the notion his brain was conjuring up that Ian, right now, right there, was some sick illusion and he'd dreamt the entire thing up, the entire place, the events, _everything_ and that he was back home, holed up in a his apartment waiting for a certain drunk fucker to walk in and grab him around the neck. “Oh Jesus,” Mickey inhaled, snapping his eyes open to find Ian's face, his hair, feeling his fingers ghost down the side of his neck softly.

“Moo? You're spiralling and you need to take that control back, somehow, so take it, now, from me,” Ian said, leaning in close to press his forehead to Mickey's temple, flashes of warmth hitting Mickey's cheek from his breaths. The attack was licking at his ankles and regardless of the fears he was trying not to let consume him, Ian's presence alone was soothing his disposition greatly. Even if he was kind of the reason for it in the first place, if not purposefully.

“H-how d'you mean?” Mickey asked quietly, his hands sneaking from his lap up Ian's sides to clutch in the fabric of his soft shirt.

“You give up control to me every time we fuck, right?” Ian began softly, nosing Mickey's cheekbone, kissing the softness of his cheek. “You trust me with your body, your pleasure, with you... you've just told me something that requires more trust in me and _Jesus_ , Mick, I can't explain in words what that means to me. So, without handing you a gun with one bullet and asking you to Roulette me, I wanna show you how much I trust you by giving you that control back. Now, you need it and to be fuckin' honest, I've needed you all day and I don't want to go tomorrow without selfishly having you. I want you, so bad.”

Mickey swallowed as heat traversed his back, “You wanna plough me, that it twinkle toes?” much as he meant for that to sound cheeky, it sounded far more like a prayer. He knew Ian wasn't flipping the whole thing around for his own gain because the guy just didn't work that way, he had angles and honest ones at that.

Ian snorted and pulled back, “No. I want you to, uh, do me. I'd rather say 'make love to me' because I'm a giant fuckin' sap and to be honest, I don't want something quick and rough either, nothing fuck-like about it. Not tonight. I'd take my time taking you apart but I really want it the other way around. You need that control and I want to give you that.”

Mickey's eyebrows rose a bit and he flushed, warming right up to that idea, “You sure?”

“I've bottomed a few times before so I'm no virgin but, yeah, it's not a common thing,” Ian shrugged, his cheeks pinking and his eyes fucking _sparkling_ the more he looked at Mickey. “Besides, I trust you to take care of me the way I take care of you. I want this, you...”

“You're sure?” Mickey asked again because hell, he just wanted to make sure. This step Ian was giving him, taking for him, was a big deal to Mickey; couldn't have painted his trust more clearly if he'd been a cat and rolled onto his back and exposed his belly for a rub, open and vulnerable. This was something Mickey knew all about and because of that, he was going to make sure not a single pinch of regret or worry seeped into the skater. Ever.

“Completely,” Ian assured him with an open expression, a little shake of his head to affirm it and Mickey pursed his mouth, sucking his lip in to roll it under his tongue. _I'm not leaving you_.

“I'll do it,” he said slowly, taking Ian's wandering fingers in his own. “Thank you.”

Ian chuckled and stood up, pulling Mickey with him slowly, “Thanking me for sex is kind of kinky.”

“Fuck you, wasn't thankin' you for sex, Jesus,” Mickey grouched as Ian's hands got to work on the few buttons he had.

“I know you weren't, moo,” Ian said so sweetly and quietly that Mickey almost didn't hear him. If not for the fond smile and the glancing eyes looking from the deft work of his fingers to Mickey's curious gaze, he'd have entirely missed it. Ian tugged the hem out of Mickey's jeans, “Lift.”

“I like this undressing me thing you do,” Mickey hushed as Ian rolled up Mickey's long-sleeved top and buried his face in it, humming with contentment as he breathed in Mickey's body spray and general smell.

“Just 'cause you're gonna take care of me, doesn't mean I'm gonna stop,” Ian mumbled into the fabric, jolting as Mickey hooked his fingers in the redhead's belt and tugged him hard. “God, you always smell like damn oranges. Mmm fuckin' _love_ oranges.”

Mickey huffed a little chuckle and began unbuckling the belt while Ian hummed and melted into the top in his hands, squeezing it and nuzzling it. “You want to keep the fuckin' thing or somethin'?” Mickey teased and Ian reappeared, a hopeful look on his face. “Jesus. OK, truce. You take that for the next few days if I get this,” he said, fisting Ian's shirt. He liked this one, green and brown check with little gleaming buttons, something Ian had worn a few times so it must smell like him pretty good. If Ian was going to steal his top, and the fucker looked like he would have done without permission, then Mickey was going to tea-leaf something to keep too. Sappy and sentimental or not, two days without Ian even within range was going to hurt him and he knew it. No need to sugar coat this shit any more.

“Oh yeah? Deal. Let me just take care of that for you,” Ian said with a thick sweetness lacing his voice, winking at Mickey as his belt fell open, stepping out of reach to unbutton the shirt slowly, purposely, revealing his chest steadily to Mickey's hot and heavy stare. Mickey knew he probably looked like a predator right now, licking his lips and letting his eyes roam all over Ian like the picture he was. He was a sight all right, but not a sight being revealed fast enough. He was the one being given control right? Still, he couldn't find it in himself to be overly strict, not with Ian, not at any point.

“You take it off quicker? Kisses,” Mickey flicked an eyebrow as Ian's hands stopped. Then, as fast as he could manage without ruining his shirt, Ian was topless and folding the items up to place on the sofa with Mickey's jacket. He was back in Mickey's space within moments, all pretences forgotten as he scooped one hot arm around Mickey's naked back while cradling his head with the other hand, catching Mickey's chuckling lips with his own. His laughter soon bubbled into a moan as Ian stealthily walked Mickey through the room until he connected with the bed, Ian twisting them immediately so that he went down first and Mickey landed between his spread knees, no loss of lip movement or tongue licking at all for the guy held on tight, refusing even an inch of space.

“Pants off, c'mon,” Mickey gasped, wrenching his mouth away even though he didn't want to, at all, fingers working like cogs to pop Ian's buttons open quickly before he began yanking the jeans down, snorting as Ian wriggled to toe them down while trying so hard to get Mickey's belt and zipper undone simultaneously. “Dork, just get yours off, _fuck_.”

“Please!” Ian giggled to which he got the eye roll of the century and a slap to his thigh. “Just gonna dig out my supply. Don't honestly know if I got a condom small enough for you though.”

“Not surprised,” Mickey said absently, swearing his jeans down his legs because why were they clinging so much right now? He got them down and toed the things off while watching Ian parade around the hotel room in thought in what had to be the tightest, most form fitting boxer-briefs Mickey had ever seen that hadn't come from his own collection. Blue too. “Look in my wallet. In my jacket – I fucking _swear_ you're photoshopped.”

“Shush,” Ian chided, sticking his tongue out. “Not offended are you?”

“What, that I don't have a cock the size of my forearm? Yeah, just a little. I'd have serious issues walking around if did,” Mickey sniffed sarcastically, winking as Ian came back with Mickey's wallet in his hand.

“You're not exactly little though are you? Only a slight difference. You're packin' heat, baby.”

Mickey licked his lips and ducked his head, “Jesus. Give me that.”

Ian sat back on the bed and stretched himself out, producing a bottle of lubricant he'd fished out of his bag while Mickey yanked out a foil packet and tossed his wallet back across the room to land on his jacket. He took the bottle and sat on his heels, watching Ian lazily running his fingers up and down his own torso. “Everything OK, moo?” he asked quietly.

“You're sure you want this? S'a big thing, I know that.”

“Of course. Regardless of you needing some control in your life at the moment, I'd been thinking on it for a day or two anyway. Before Lana had dropped the ball earlier and told me we'd be leaving, I really wanted to do this, with you, no matter everything else. It's what I wanted to ask you... So, uh, if you want to, then by all means,” Ian shyly smiled, turning it coy and naughty within a second as he spread his knees and raised his chin in challenge. Accepted.

“Gonna take _real_ good care of you, promise,” Mickey grumbled, crawling his way up the bed and between those powerful thighs to plant kisses on Ian's chest and collar while he deposited the lube and condom on the pillow, kissing him hard and passionately once he was able to stuff his hands in flame-red hair and lay his entire weight on the guy. To lessen the hard crush of his body, Mickey shuffled and drew up his knees as Ian lifted his own, slotting his thighs under Ian's and locking his backside between his knees while Ian locked his ankles against Mickey's ass.

Their kissing grew from heated, laced with promises, to frantic and consuming, riddled with assurances and need. Licking into Ian's gasping mouth, Mickey pressed down with his waist to gain some friction, pushing his swelling cock against the fullness of Ian's trapped in the tight confines of his underwear. With a hard roll of his pelvis, Mickey had Ian breaking the kiss to inhale sharp through his nose, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, baring the pale column of his throat to Mickey's biting mouth, moaning and using his heels to pull Mickey closer still as he sunk his teeth into the meat of Ian's shoulder, only lightly, kissing away the sting with loving movements and caresses of his lips.

“Christ,” Ian hissed as Mickey used his grip on Ian's hair to turn his head up and to the side, scraping his teeth from just below Ian's ear all the way to his collarbone where he sucked and groaned into the hardness of it, pressing closer still, feeling every movement of the body underneath him like it was his own, the heat of it, the banging of Ian's heart against his chest wall, the dampening of his skin, his breaths evolving from short gasps to heavy, laboured panting with Mickey's name plaited into it. Ian's hands skated Mickey's side, curling around his shoulders and back down the moving planes of his back with a heavy groan out of Ian's mouth, fingers digging in as they drew back up to Mickey's neck. “Mmmh! Jesus, _Mickey_ ,” there was that utterly sinful and burning moan of his name, and Mickey echoed with a moan of his own, foregoing the exploration of Ian's neck and shoulders with his mouth in order to swoop up and nip his jaw, pulling Ian's face back down for more body igniting kisses, licking into Ian's mouth, tempting his tongue out to play for a little bit while Mickey's hands left red hair in search of skin and muscle to palm and squeeze.

“You sure?” Mickey breathed into Ian's mouth, catching his top lip with his teeth.

“Moo,” Ian groaned it with such a warning lilt, a tone of desperation and need, that Mickey chuckled and caught his mouth again out of wonder that if he didn't, Ian might wail. His hands found solid, shaped hips and his fingers danced with the waistband of bright blue boxers, pushing them down as Mickey moved only enough to get them moving. He quickly realised he'd have to move away to get them off so he switched tactic and pushed his own down, a second set of a large, soft hands grabbing at his ass, sliding under the fabric and pushing until Mickey was lay flat on Ian and flicking his feet up to send his underwear sailing through the room. With a smile down at a very out of breath and flushed Ian, Mickey held him by the waist and rolled them, kissing Ian quiet as he slotted perfectly between his open legs. This feeling of a heavy body, a hard and masculine line, holding him against a bed always sent thrills of fire up Mickey's spine, but now that it was Ian and not a randomer, Mickey's body sang with pleasure, getting so used to Ian's shape and weight now that he'd had him against him enough times and he absently realised he never wanted any other again, if possible, just this guy.

“Get them off, twinkle toes, not gettin' any younger,” Mickey sassed as Ian took to kissing all over Mickey's chest, licking and biting with mumbles of praise and hums and moans as he took his fill of the taste of Mickey. Even with kissing the hell out of Mickey's ribs, Ian managed to kneel over him and push his boxers off quickly, laying down the second he had them at his knees and his cock free. With his groin bare and as it came into contact with Mickey's, Ian let loose an impressive growl, rolling and rocking and pawing and grabbing at all of the skin he could, biting and sucking Mickey's chest and neck.

“Need you. C'mon big guy,” Ian pleaded, tugging at Mickey's ear lobe with his teeth and impatient little whimpers. Mickey closed his eyes for a second and let the grumbling moan bubble out of his throat; Ian's immediate response was a hard kiss as he manhandled Mickey over again until he was lay between Ian's legs, rolling against him, building the arousal and passion to a painful level before he even considered getting a hold of the lube.

“You ready for this, tough guy?” Mickey wondered, tearing himself away with one lingering kiss to Ian's throat, popping the cap of the lube while Ian bent up his legs and opened himself up to Mickey's gaze, completely comfortable with no trace of embarrassment; he smiled lazily and reached to stroke Mickey's arm as he squeezed the slimy stuff out, warming it quickly in his hands. He was a little put out that it didn't ignite with how hot his skin was but then he could get by without, looking at Ian looking back at him with such an open expression of care and wonder. He kept the stare going while he ducked his fingers down to play with Ian's cheeks, gliding his fingers along the furl of muscle teasingly, gently and with kindness. Ian simply exploded with noise; it was pouring out of him, like he was being electrocuted with divine sensation, throwing his head back and opening his hips out further, his hands grasping Mickey's forearms while his mouth spilled his name over and over.

To keep him grounded, Mickey bent over his lover and stole little kisses, peppering his lips and cheeks and jaw, muttering praises of _you're doing great_ and _you're fucking beautiful_ and _Jesus, Ian, you react wonderfully_.

“Just like you do with me,” Ian gasped and Mickey groaned deeply, sealing their mouths together with a steady kiss as he slipped his middle finger passed the tightness of Ian's rim, push-pulling until he had the guy whining and trying to wriggle for more. “Jesus, Mickey!” Ian yelled out, his fingers digging hard into the tightness of Mickey's arms.

“Fucking hell,” Mickey breathed, barely getting the words out around the thickness in his throat. Watching Ian fly apart without even doing much was burning him from the inside out. “Here's another,” he warned as he pumped the one finger, tickling along Ian's perineum with his index for a second before he slid it in alongside, twisting his wrist and pumping his arm slowly while Ian seemingly broke into pieces.

“Oh my God, _fuck_ , fuck moo,” Ian huffed, eyes rolling as Mickey's thick fingers pegged him good. Mickey had yet to hit his prostate and couldn't fucking wait to find it because if Ian was reacting like this already, he was probably going to scream. Noticing that Ian's erection had flagged a little with the intrusion, Mickey shifted until he was lay flat with Ian's thighs over his shoulders, mouthing and suckling up and down the hot flesh of his cock, sucking his thighs, his balls, licking and humming wetly around the now swelling shaft in his mouth until Ian was rolling his hips and swearing.

“You sure you're gonna last, man?” Mickey wondered with a grin, rolling his tongue across the spitting head of Ian's dick, humming at the taste and texture. Ian merely glared down at him, panting like he'd run a mile in ten seconds, watching then with utter rapture as Mickey bobbed his head and winked, his fingers scissoring in order to slip a third in and with those, a slight twist and a hard peg, Mickey found Ian's prostate and the guy _wailed_. He yelled so loud and drew off into such a long and powerful moan, wrecking his voice box, that Mickey very nearly got up and gave himself that silver medal hanging on the hook on the closet door. He was mildly aware that the level of noise might cause some kind of concern from neighbouring rooms but he gave no fuck to that, intent on keeping Ian's cock hard and easing his comfort by getting him as relaxed as possible.

“OK, uhm Mick. Mickey, _now_ , please. I can't take this prep any more, I can't, I can't,” Ian begged, sounding so desperate and ruined that Mickey, rather than question him, removed himself quickly and wiped his hands down on the comforter under his feet.

“Get yourself in a comfortable position. Whatever works for you,” he panted, trying so hard to concentrate on getting the condom on the right way and not inside out, frowning at it, swearing at it and the trickiness of it all with shaky fingers and a rigid cock that was bobbing with his frantic heartbeat. Once it was on, he glanced up to find Ian hadn't moved much, just shuffled down so that he was lay flat with the quilt rolled down and bunched under his lower back, long legs bent open and out, hands twitching at his sides.

“Do you mind this?” green eyes sparkled in the low light of the room and Mickey's face curled into a smile. No, he didn't mind one fucking speck and so, he shook his head slowly and crawled close, kissing Ian soundly. He got a hold of his spider legs and pushed between them, his knees nudging at Ian's ass as he moved until they held his hips and he could guide his cock down, lubing it right up, holding it there for a second to watch Ian's face intently.

“Fuck,” Mickey croaked as he pushed, eyes never leaving Ian's face even though he tipped it back to let out a long, deep moan of bliss, the stretch of his throat making it deeper and rough and Mickey absorbed it with all the cells he could. Bottoming out, and flush against Ian, Mickey gingerly placed his hands either side of Ian's head and leant forward to watch him as he rolled his hips carefully, Ian's face blanking out into pleasure with every slow and careful push and pull Mickey tried. Then Ian bent his legs up and held them against Mickey's ribs and _Jesus wept_.

“Holy fuck, Mickey, that feels so damn good,” Ian praised, _aahhing_ and sighing and gasping as Mickey picked up some speed and added in a bit of power, holding on to the pillow under Ian's head as he threw himself down and kissed at his neck, grunting and moaning himself at the tight heat engulfing his cock and burning him alive. He shifted again until Ian's thighs sat over his own, settling over the crease of where thigh met hip as Mickey spread his knees and thrust with all the passion and power he could, careful not to go too fast just yet, kissing swears and moans into Ian's shoulder, his chest, his bicep, anywhere he could get his mouth to without losing the closeness. If he thought he got loud when he was on the receiving end, then Ian was showing him right up; he was _loud_ , every thrust in had a noise punching right back out. Mickey sped up and Ian held his head up to stare at him, his pupils overtaking his iris', mouth puffy and rounded, _ooohing_ so loudly, going from the lower tones right up to high, that Mickey felt compelled to kiss him and slow down again. His sounds were going to do Mickey in so he licked thickly into his mouth, sucking on his lips, biting them, barely moving his pelvis at all until Ian was humming deeply again, hands roaming Mickey's back.

“You good?” stupid question really, but it came out regardless. Ian chuckled as Mickey began to move again, moaning straight away and damn his noises – Mickey curled himself over Ian further, brokenly panting into his mouth while he linked his own fingers together and really rolled his hips, hard and deep and with the intent to press and rub at Ian's prostate repeatedly.

“Aha, _oh_ fucking! Ah, uhm Mick- moo... _moo_!” Ian moaned, biting Mickey's shoulder and burying his face in his neck once he'd licked the sore spot, whimpering the harder Mickey went. His ass was so damn tight and wet and Mickey was losing his fucking mind, he was sure of it. Kisses were pressed lovingly against his Apple and into the curve of his neck and shoulder as Mickey held deep for a second or two.

“Feel so good. _So good_. Promise, so amazing, Ian, _Jesus_ ,” Mickey gasped, pulling away to peg him hard and fast until Ian was _ooohing_ loudly and needed more kisses to shut him up a bit. Neither of them were really breathing right, licking their lips to wet them, their throats clogging, their hearts rampant and insistently banging to break free.

“M'close Mickey,” Ian said after another few minutes of moaning and panting like he was having the time of his life. Much as Mickey wanted to push into him until he was seeing stars and convulsing with his orgasm, he had another idea.

“Not happenin', toesie,” he grunted, pulling out quickly, “Turn on your side.”

“Huh?

Mickey pushed at Ian's hips and moved to get behind him, “On your side, soldier. I wanna go for a bit longer. You said you wanted to have love made to you, so, that's what I'm gonna do.”

“Mickey,” Ian sighed as he settled on his side and let Mickey move his legs until they were bent slightly, pushing back inside his body slowly, kissing along his stretched neck and shoulder, curling one arm under Ian's head and the other over to hold around his waist and dance their fingers together. Not really knowing what it felt like to have love made to him, Mickey only went off what Ian had done with his body so far, knowing to push passion into his movements, go slow sometimes and hard and heavy at other points, the kisses and touches more important than anything. He knew that much, so he tried, God did he try, pushing into Ian with soft moans and hard hips, kissing his neck, biting his skin lightly, listening to his responding cries and panting praises and unholy moaning.

“Good?"

Ian hummed and turned his head to catch Mickey's lips while he rolled slowly against him, “Fucking fantastic. That's all you ever are to me.”

“Jesus,” Mickey pressed his forehead against the bumps of Ian's neck and pushed a little harder, snaking his fingers around to take hold of Ian's heavy cock, pumping it slowly, smiling when Ian's large hand enclosed his and tugged harder. “Naughty.”

“Desperate!” Ian hissed, pushing his hips into their fist and back against Mickey, pushing his face into the pillow with a pained whimper while Mickey lavished his neck with hot kisses and bites. “Fuck, I can feel you everywhere,” Ian groaned into the pillow, rocking harder with Mickey's thrusts. It wouldn't take much more for Mickey, he could feel it trickling through his stomach and down through his navel, building like a wall.

“You gonna come for me? S'right there hm?” Mickey whispered, looking all over the back of Ian's tight neck, his fiery hair, the lines of his shoulders. Planting a hard kiss against the bumps of his neck, Mickey pushed harder, holding deep and just flexing his hips enough to rub against Ian's bundle of heaven, inhaling desperate puffs of air when Ian tensed and cried long and low out into the room, their hands suddenly wet and hot as the guy whimpered and moaned _Mickey_ over and over again.

“Oh Jesus Christ!” Ian breathed after a second or two of grunting, squeezing Mickey's hand around his spent shaft and rolling his pelvis back, encouraging him to follow. It wasn't more than two, maybe half of another thrust into the convulsing tightness around him that Mickey was hit blind.

“Ian, fuck, aha-” Mickey came with a bite to Ian's shoulder, licking and loving the skin through his hard spasms, screwing his eyes shut tight as his vision whited out, wishing for a second that he didn't have a condom on, wanting to feel the wetness of his release coating his skin and the heated inside of Ian's body like a brand. _Mine_.

“I actually felt you swell a little then,” Ian said after a moment of heavy breathing and nothing else. “I get what you mean now when you say you can feel me.”

“Hmm,” was all Mickey could reply with, pulling away carefully and stretching out his cramping fingers. Keeping with his care, Mickey was up and stumbling through to the bathroom in search of a wash cloth and the bin for his used condom, washing his hands and warming the cloth nicely in preparation for cleaning down Ian in the same manner he usually did. He took his time with it, swiping away lube and come, kissing freshly cleaned skin while Ian stretched out and smiled, giggling whenever Mickey kissed his belly.

“So sweet, aren't you?” Ian mused as Mickey carefully pulled Ian's underwear back up his legs and tucked him in like he was made of glass.

“Don't let anyone else hear you say that,” Mickey chided, yanking on his own shorts before he tucked himself against Ian's chest and kissed him for a while, loving the little ones he got all over his face and neck with smiles and murmurs he couldn't quite hear. When he fell asleep, he didn't know, but he woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow next to him. Feeling like his world had just been ripped out from under his ass, Mickey took up the note and sighed heavily, hating that he knew this was coming and hadn't even dared prepared himself in the slightest. Two days. It was ten past nine in the morning if the clock on the wall was right and Mickey ran his hand down his face, getting rid of the sleep and tired ache in his cheeks.

 

_Moo, I tried to wake you up. I'm so sorry, had to go. I did kiss you though, loads of times, but you were out like a rock so, I guess I wore you out :) I felt the love last night, I did, I've never felt so wanted. I don't know how to explain myself properly so... uh, I think/hope you know what I'm saying? See you when I get back. I will try to call you tonight after you've done your hockey time. I took my key, obviously, so once you leave you aren't getting back in so... don't forget anything important like your phone or something lol X_

 

“Yeah,” Mickey said sleepily into Ian's empty room, eyeing the shirt folded next to his jacket with a little smile, “I think I do, dork.” He knew exactly what Ian was trying to say, or he hoped he did, and it hurt that he wasn't there to read Mickey's mind as it flashed _I love you_. Or to reassure him when it screamed _you left_ and made his chest go tight. It was ridiculous and he knew it, it was just his traitorous mind and he'd be back in a few days for fuck sake, but it didn't stop the thoughts or the pain regardless of the freshness of it all; he had fallen hard and didn't want to let go.

Maybe Ian didn't love him? That's what his faithless mind told him because hey, he'd left. Mickey shook his head and went to start up the coffee machine – even _if_ the guy wasn't on the same page like his dad had noted, like Mickey himself felt, he was in the same boat at least, so that was something. And if Mickey was ahead and falling quicker then fuck it, he was going to make sure he harnessed that feeling and made Ian feel like the saving grace he was. No matter what the skater felt, he'd made Mickey happier than he had been in a long while and fuck anything that tried to toy with that. The machine hissed while Mickey stuffed his face into Ian's shirt, missing him even though he'd only been gone a few hours. Fucking fire-haired idiots burying themselves in Mickey's heart like he'd been there the moment he'd formed it in utero. It hurt that Ian wasn't there, because Mickey selfishly wanted him around all the time, and after last night and pushing everything he could into the guy without actually shouting out what he felt, it made it all the more bitter-sweet. With the control he'd handed over, Mickey could safely sit in Ian's hotel room and keep the major freak-out at bay, telling it to stay in its box because _no, not today._ Ian had saved him from himself without even being there and Mickey smiled sadly, fingering the buttons of the shirt. Mickey knew he'd have to let go of Ian at the end of the week anyway, even if he found out where the guy lived it was still far-fetched and it killed him, so it was probably for the best that he suffer these two days because hell was coming for him with a flame-licking trident targeting hearts. If the whole idea made him cry a little into the shirt, then nobody was around to point it out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
> It's his mind - he's not used to someone loving him like Ian does and he finds it hard to believe in sometimes. Angst? I don't really do that very well LOL but shit. I tried. OK, so... onward!!!! i love you all xx
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, same name :) I post up music that I'm gonna use and there's a long post of look a likes I sought out to give a visual to the characters I created... and I talk loads. Hit me up xx


	15. Were You Only Imaginary?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the semi finals for the US of A and Louie is being a sore pain in Mickey's backside while he tries his best to push through his misery over missing Ian. His day doesn't go well because of his funk, and then, as the clouds clear away, lightning strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the amount of time this has taken me to do. I had a seriously bad patch (those of you on tumblr would have seen it and OMGosh thank you so much to all of you who sent me kind, supportive words. i love you) and then i just... i couldn't write. I just couldn't do it. Besides the point now, because here is the chapter and I, personally, once again, think it's awful. I just, i hope it was worth your patience and i cannot thank you enough for sticking with me. I am out of my bad patch, my head is clear and back in the zone and the illnesses and injuries are healed and being kept at bay. Hope you enjoy my loves!!  
> WARNING: a lot of Louie. Moping, pining Mickey. Swearing. Drunkeness. Violence and that comes because of Luke.

 

Try as he might, Mickey couldn't shake his funky mood at all. He'd woken up in said mood and nothing and non-one had managed to shift it and the sole cause for it was his own aching heart sitting awkwardly in his chest. Ian had been gone for one day and as much as he had pushed through yesterday by tricking his mind into believing that Ian was still in the resort, that they were both too busy to see one another, today, the second day, it had all come to the front and his head called him a liar, his heart refused to listen and regulate the painful static beating and his body wanted to stop, drop and sleep until Ian reappeared. It was possibly the worst day for him to fall out of balance as well, and yet he still couldn't shift it, even with the Russian Federation breathing down his neck. At least they had Russia, who had barely beaten Sweden, while Canada had Czechoslovakia, medal gunners and ruthless players. Mickey closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, Louie had popped into existence in the seat opposite, the train finally coming to life and propelling them towards the arenas.

“You were real quiet yesterday Mick, apparently. Didn't see you once I got back either... You doing OK, bro?” Louie asked softly, nudging Mickey's orange juice with his fingers a little to try and get Mickey's attention on it, for him to drink something if he wasn't going to eat. He'd been watching his best friend from the other end of the carriage, and though he thought he'd been discreet in his hiding, Mickey could pick Louie from a crowd in a seconds.

“Peachy.”

Louie licked his lips and rubbed his forehead, “I know you don't want me to mother hen your ass, but if you're going to sit there and refuse any nutrition of any value hours before our match, then I'm going to have to ignore your bitch face and mother the fuck out of you until you're swaddled and cooing. Don't think I won't.”

Mickey tore his gaze from the passing scenery to give Louie a barely-there smile, his face void of anything other than sadness; he could feel it's unresponsiveness, “I'm fine, Lou.”

“Nah, not buying that bullshit. You're not and I can see it, we can _all_ see it,” Louie looked pained for a second, pushing the glass a little more towards Mickey's limp fingers on the table top. “Mick, if you don't drink or eat something, I'm going to have to tell Coach. You're running on fumes as it is and this match is going to be fuckin' rough today, man. You'll end up hurt and, call me a dick for grassing on you, but I won't allow that. Jake said you didn't eat much at the restaurant during lunch yesterday and you slinked off before dinner and now? You've got nothing in front of you except this glass and you've not touched a drop.”

Mickey grit his teeth and forced air out his nose heavily, “I'm fine, Lou. Just feelin' off is all.”

“Then you ain't playing are you? Fighting fit and of sound mind, that's what you say,” Louie raised one eyebrow at Mickey's venomous face, bothered by it not one bit. “Drink the fucking orange juice and eat when food gets put in front of you. If you don't, I'm telling the big guy.”

“ _Really_? You're an asshole,” Mickey rubbed his head and bit his lip when Louie straightened in his seat, steely eyes on Mickey.

“You know I am,” Louie winked. “I know you and _you_ know I care about you. Fuck you if you think I'm going to let you stew. He'll be back in the morning, right? Not like he's left entirely and yeah, I know it's hurting you, I know why too... just. Moo, if he finds out you've been like this, it's going to hurt him, right?”

That hit Mickey hard and he swallowed, looking down at the glass now encased in his fingers, “That's not fair.” Fuck Louie and his words.

Louie tapped his fingers on the table, his voice low, “No, it isn't, but then is painful truth ever fair? I love you, Mickey, but I ain't skipping around the truth to avoid hurting your feelings because, when have I ever? If he finds out, and not from me before you tear my head off! If he finds out, it's going to hurt him too and you don't want that so, kill a bird here, stop focusing on his absence and focus on his return, the match and the buzz that comes with it. Get the fuck out of this funk before I have to kick your ass. Look, you'll feel better once you've eaten, moody bitch. Hey, you know you're a total dick when you're _hangry?_ ”

Mickey snorted and felt his mouth curling into a smile, “Hangry?”

Louie winked and grinned, reaching over to take one of Mickey's hands to squeeze it, “Hungry angry.”

“Such a dork,” Mickey scoffed, squeezing back before releasing Louie's hand to pick up his glass, downing half the contents while his friend watched with a relieved smile. “Right. Distract me then.”

Louie sighed and sat back heavily, toying with the cuffs of his red jacket, a habit he had when he was nervous about something and a habit Mickey's eyes zeroed in on, narrowing his eyes and trying to catch Louie's evasive glancing from the table to the windows and back. “Can't think of anything right now.”

“Liar. What are you hiding from me?” Mickey questioned, leaning over the wood to slap the table between Louie's fidgety hands. “You can't hide from me, so why try. Tell me, now, or I'll titty twist it out of you.”

“Look, it's nothin',” Louie insisted, moving to get out of the seat but Mickey pushed forward and got a fist full of Louie's jacket and shirt. “ _Mickey_ , leave it.”

First name warning? That didn't sit with Mickey at all, so he ragged Louie a little and forced him back down, staring hard at his face while Louie grimaced and looked like a liar with his pants on fire, “No. If you think you can sit there for ten minutes berating my behaviour and empty-threat me and then do a runner when I see through you like glass, you got another fucking thing comin', son. Spill, or I will twist your nipples so hard you'll be cartwheeling for the rest of the day. You were shifty the other night after your fight with Jake, odd yesterday – yeah, OK, I was in my own little world but you can't escape my eye, Lou, something is going on with you and I'm a little bit worried, you know? You never keep shit from me, hell, usually you can't keep your goddamn mouth shut so, out with it.”

Louie's face crumpled a little like he was trying to fight the words down but the impulse to tell Mickey won out, “You're gonna judge the hell out of me.”

Judge him? Mickey frowned and let go of Louie's clothes slowly, ready to snatch him again if he so much a flinched, “Lou, I'd never judge you – the fuck have you done, Louie?” Mickey's head was running a mile a second as he watched his friend internally fight whatever it was he was trying to keep to himself, but if it was making him reclusive and suspicious, Mickey would get it out of him come hell or high water. The only things he'd ever judge him for were the unthinkable, lengthly-prison-sentence kind of things and, as Louie paled and sucked in his top lip and bit it hard enough to render the surrounding skin white, Mickey felt sick. He surely hadn't done one of those, had he?

“When I got back from the hospital, I uh, did something I'd never thought I'd do, ever. I don't regret it, but I don't feel proud either because, to be honest bro, it isn't something I reckon I should feel proud of...”

“Jesus Christ, Lou, you're fucking scaring me,” Mickey hissed under his breath, looking around to make sure no ears were listening in. Louie looked too and then, took a deep breath as he deflated.

“Had a threesome, bro.”

Mickey tipped his head back and let out a string of swears in a heavy breath, “God sake, man. Thought you'd done something seriously fucking bad. You've had those before though, nothin' new there, so why is it cutting you up so much?”

Louie entwined his fingers and wrapped his knuckles along the table lightly, shame-faced, “'Cause usually it's not with someone I know, man.”

Mickey snapped his head back down and tipped his head in question, “Meaning?”

“Jesus Christ,” Louie sighed and leant over the wood to whisper in Mickey's ear. “ _Got with a ski girl and one of ours joined us. Only, she asked us to kiss, so we did. We got too into it and before we knew it, she'd left in a huff so uh... I fucked Jake. Twice._ ”

Mickey, in all of his life, had never felt his eyes widen so much nor would he have ever thought he'd hear that Louie, woman-lover extraordinaire, slept with a _guy_ , let alone one of his friends. _Twice_. “What.”

“Lapse of mind, or just thinking with our dicks, or whatever. I don't regret it, but I ain't proud of myself and he's been funny with me since, Mick. I tried to act normal after and we had a massive fight about it, then we chilled, went for food and he left half way through and now he won't fucking look at me, never mind talk. What have I done, bro? I am like, gay now? Or Bi like you, or whatever – oh my god, why do I think with my dick all the fucking time?!” Louie moaned, dropping his head into the fold of his arms, letting out a dying animal noise to Mickey's amusement. This wasn't funny. _Yes it was_.

“Idiot. You know not to sleep with someone you've had as a friend for nearly half your life, fuck... and no, you're not gay unless you only want guys now, strictly guys. If you liked it enough to want to do it again and it wasn't like, some heat of the moment thing, then yeah, I'd say you're Bi... it's not a bad thing, Louie, don't even fucking think that,” Mickey tugged at Louie's hair to get his attention and got a grunt in response.

“I know that, fool. Never thought that, I mean, look who my bestie is! Just... confused I guess. I've ruined the friendship though, and as fuckin' amazing as it was, and how awful the fight was after, I can't regret it. But, this kills me Mick, him not being able to look at me,” Louie lifted his head and rubbed his face slowly, his conflict extremely apparent and Mickey felt bad for him. What a stupid situation to be in.

“Look, Lou, it takes two to tango, right? He's probably just as confused as you are about this so, maybe catch him after the match and hash it out, clear the air or whatever? I had no idea this... I'd have _never_ thought, ever, that you pair would end up having sex with a guy, never mind with each other. He's gotta be feeling strange about it all, like you so, uh, I dunno, sympathize and whatever. Talk to him. Later though. Stop moping too, Coach doesn't need one of us in a funk, but three? He'll go berserker on us.”

“Three?” Louie asked tiredly, jumping as a large coffee was put down in front of him, followed by his breakfast and Mickey's, though he hadn't asked so he guessed from the banana pancakes and bottle of syrup disguised as table sauce, Louie had wheedled it.

“Jake's just as bad,” Mickey grumbled, keeping his voice low enough while they took offered cutlery and focused on eating. “Suggestion? Let's take it out on the Russian Federation.”

 

 

Mickey groaned loud and bit hard into his gum shield as he was slammed into the wall for the forth time, his shoulder protesting with such a stab of pain that Mickey almost threw down his stick and left the rink.

“Fuckin' slam me again-”

The Russian skater circled Mickey and laughed in his face, “I might just, to see what threat you're going to carry out little boy.”

Mickey seethed, cracking his neck as he skated off and resumed defending his goalie, his eye never leaving the bulky bastard who had it in for him. “Assfaced _son of a bitch_ ,” he hissed, rotating his sore arms as much as he could through his padding.

“Keep it cool, Mick, you ain't bleedin' yet!” Oliver called, crouching as a wave of players came hurtling back towards their end of the ice, Russian and American colours blending into a brawl for the puck. The awkwardness between Louie and Jake had so far caused no issues as they'd played perfectly; though, now, Mickey watched in horror as both went for the puck, realised who the other was before they had chance to touch it or each other in momentum and froze up, causing the entire cluster to trip and fall down in a pile, a Russian stick swatting the puck on, half-powered, enough that Mickey could deflect it but not enough to have it worrying Oliver. A great mess really, one that had Thompson swearing up a storm and the remaining standing players all shaking their heads or putting their hands on their hips in exasperation. Not that it mattered much, but the US team were winning by miles and Mickey wondered how the heck Russia had won their previous game if they played this badly, but then, other teams had bad days so they got lucky. Regardless, their lead meant that stupid Fael's and Brooker's could do this all day and they'd not have to worry, but Russia were fuming, calling out sabotage.

Mickey rolled his eyes as the giant smasher who'd been ghosting his steps slid closer, observing with his arms folded, stick wedged between his brick-wall legs, “Your team likes dirty playing. Cannot say I am all that surprised, after all. I am shocked that it is not you in the middle though, their dirtiest American boy, he does like to squish himself between the boys-”

“What the fuck? Back it up Godzilla, and keep your fuckin' mouth shut,” Mickey growled, turning to see the smug grin on the guys face behind his guard.

“Or what? You would try and shut it? I am not scared of you, Ukrainian pussy,” the thick accent only made Mickey's blood boil more, snarling at the guy while he winked and teased him.

“ _Mickey_ ,” Oliver warned, watching the referee's sort out the mess and the argument whilst listening to Mickey's little goader.

“I know your dirty little secrets. You like these kinds of things, right? Big men pressing down on you-”

“Look pal,” Mickey put his hand out, “Don't know what you're getting at here, but trying to piss me off by pathetically skipping around the fact that I'm into dudes, somehow trying to make me snap because you're stating the truth, yeah, no it's not gonna work here brutus. You callin' me gay? Doesn't bother me. You want a fight, you strike first, fuck head.”

The skater looked a little put out for a second and then he leant in, “You are not bothered by people knowing you are gay?”

“Bisexual,” Oliver added before Mickey could say anything, his frown stopping his words for a second. “Nobody is bothered, just uh, those who are _bothered_. Homophobic idiots, linear thinkers, rude assholes, those kinds of people. _You_.”

“What annoys me is when it's used against me to get a fight outta me, 'cause that shit don't fly with me. It's not right. Be like me picking a fight with you and using your heterosexuality to piss you off. Why bother, right? Just, it's been a good match, don't fuck it up for yourself by being boxed by both me and the ref, yeah?” Mickey sighed, seeing the guy's hackles lowering the more he thought on it. The mess had almost been sorted out and Mickey's heart sank a little to see Louie looking shame-faced while Jake avoided looking anywhere, just down at his skates.

“So-”

“You wanna fight, find someone else,” Mickey shrugged, distracted. The whistle blew and he was off, skating through the pack like a rocket with his sight on the puck, snatching it from a unsuspecting Russian stick and launching it within rule, scoring in under a minute. As he rounded off and glided back towards his end of the rink, ignoring the cheering and celebrating, Mickey skated a figure of eight around Louie and Jake. “How hard was that, huh? Sort it the _fuck out_ or I'm going to knock your heads together, swear to God! I'm defence, not a fucking forward!”

Louie had the decency to look utterly mortified, “Mick-”

Mickey waved his hand and tapped his stick on the ice, “Save it, Lou. We're a team right now, not individual players. You wanna fuck this up, you fuck it up for the rest of us. I _know_ what's going on, and frankly, I don't care all that much, it is what it is, but they don't and I sure as hell don't think for _a second_ that they're gonna be even a lick understanding if you cost us points. Your asses will be kicked from here to home if you keep this up. Now, are you gonna lock it away for the rest of this final third or am I benching one of you?” he bit, ever aware that the whistle was about to go again. This was his little rotation and so, he brought out his team leader and landed them both with a stare to match the temperature of what he was standing on. Jake looked horrified that Mickey knew, the dawning of his words making him straighten his head and square his shoulders, glancing away.

“Under lock and key, boss,” Jake said, skating off. Louie gave a nod and went around the other side, ready to play. Mickey punched his thigh and readied himself by Oliver again, shaking his head when their keeper looked like he wanted to ask or say something. He knew they'd be questioned by Thompson afterwards, and probably by any reporters as this was the semi's and if they won, they'd be sitting pretty until the teams with the highest points rank were called out and put through to the final. That stupid trip up would be on camera and more than likely being analysed right now so it wouldn't be long before Jake or Louie were called out and nick-picked. Thankfully, neither of them put a skate wrong for the rest of the final third and the arena went over-the-top crazy with US supporters when they won by a long shot though Mickey could only focus on his best friend's sullen face and Jake's agitation as they all piled in together for a spur of the moment photograph. If they didn't rank any higher, they'd just bagged themselves the bronze medal, and if they climbed, they would walk with a silver medal at least. Despite the rowdy celebrating, Mickey had to force a smile because, regardless of Louie and his dilemma skating around with a face like a smacked ass, Mickey wanted nothing more than to show Ian what he was capable of, what he'd done today, how proud he felt and maybe, selfishly, feel a sense of greatness at Ian's praise too. But he couldn't, because he wasn't there.

“Nice handling today, Mick,” Bart said as they made to exit the rink and shower and change out of their clingy, sweaty kit.

“Didn't do anythin' more than usual,” Mickey shrugged, chugging half a bottle of water and pouring the rest over his flat hair, soaking himself in the liquid to stave off sweating to death. He shoved the door to the changing room open and hobbled through, breathing easier now the weight of the US stare wasn't bearing down on him.

“Yeah, sure. 'Cause I don't have eyes in my head and I wasn't watching everything you did, like usual. Just take the fuckin' compliment and shower man, you stink!” Bart chuckled, swearing blue murder when Mickey shook his hair and soaked him like a wet dog.

“I what?”

“Nothin', fuck sake,” Bart grouched, shuffling away with wipes to his jaw and a heavy scowl. Mickey busied himself with changing out of his kit, keeping his jockstrap on until he got under the spray to wash away his day, and then, as he tore it off and threw it towards the towels, he found himself accosted by Louie, covered in suds with his hair sticking every which way.

“Sup, man?” he asked, soaping up his own body quickly out of sheer embarrassment; it wasn't anyone's eye, just a simple impulse to cover his nakedness from self-consciousness.

“I'm _really_ sorry, bro,” Louie said softly, sheepishly looking at his soapy feet as he pressed the neighbouring shower to use instead of wherever the fuck he'd been before.

“Forget about it, Lou, seriously. It's done, we smashed the game... just, yeah, forget about it right? Shit happens,” Mickey assured him, scrubbing furiously to get the soap real fluffy and _everywhere_.

Louie sighed and pressed himself under the hot water, “I'm lucky I got you.”

“Damn right you are,” Mickey laughed. “I do understand, Lou, so you don't gotta explain yourself to me or apologise or whatever, a'ight? Just, talk to him, sort it out and, I don't know, use your bro-scale thing to work shit out better. Nobody is judging you, or both of you, just like they don't judge me. Hey, fuck what anyone else thinks outside of your family, right? They don't fuckin' matter.”

Louie bobbed his head, or so Mickey guessed, the steam was rising and visibility became stunted, and he stayed silent while they washed off, Mickey completely refusing to acknowledge that he stunk of oranges and nobody was there to comment in a manner he felt acceptable; _I want to eat you because fucking oranges, moo._ Louie kept his peacefulness up until they'd dressed in their uniforms - a blue-bottom-red-jacket combination with USA stitched on the back and ass for today's match - and were moving out towards the train station with Thompson leading, grilling Seth and Milo over something and glaring at any and all reporters with a stony _we're doing a press stint in the resort, be there or miss out, comprende?_

“You feelin' OK, Mick?” Louie asked quietly, nudging his shoulder against Mickey's gently while he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Mickey sighed audibly, looking forward with a squint, “Just another night, right? It's nothing huge. We get to party so it'll pass quick and this sunken feeling can fuck the fuck off.”

“You really miss him, don't you?” Louie summarised, keeping his voice down but the adoration was as loud as a bell. “You've got it bad.”

“Not gonna deny that, not to you,” Mickey said so quietly he wasn't even sure he'd spoken, but Louie's little sniff of a laugh told him that yes, he had.

“Come on ladies! Food, beer and good old fashioned groovin' awaits!” Thompson yelled out, waving them all on to move faster through the turnstiles and into the waiting train.

“Did he seriously just say 'groovin'?” Jake laughed from behind Mickey, who, having no idea he had been there and had assumed he and Louie had been bringing up the rear alone, jumped clean out of his Nike's.

“Motherfucker!” he hissed, thumping his chortling friend for good measure.

“Hah!” Jake jumped out of reach. “Louie? I need to talk to you.”

“Don't feel like talkin',” Louie shook his head and made to weave through the guys and out of sight but Mickey, ever one step ahead of Louie's exiting strategies, collared him quick.

“What did I say to you?” Mickey growled, ragging his friend a little before shoving him at Jake with what he hoped was a _don't fuck with me_ scowl.

Louie popped his brow up and whistled, “OK, seems I do. Lead the way, J-Lynne.” The look Louie shot over his shoulder suggested he was absolutely fucking terrified of being alone with Jake, but his rosy cheeks said he actually wanted nothing more. Mickey rolled his eyes and sat with Milo, David and Seth, listening to comparisons of famous breasts and having to chime in every now and then to save face, eventually drowning them out with an e-book on his kindle after an hour of hearing them seriously debate different race cars and speed boats and who would win a race, the road runner or Bolt. Mickey lost himself in Harry Potter and his trouble-attracting life, wondering how hard he'd need to hit a bludger from where he was to smash Luke in the face. What he did know was that he'd give anything for a portkey right now, to take him to Seoul or to have a twinkly toed diamond cut jaw appear in his lap for his mouth to nibble on while the owner of it curled his bowed lips into a smile and _wriggled_.  
  
“OK there, Mickey? Going a bit pink,” Milo whispered into his ear and Mickey jumped, glancing about and finding, thankfully, the other two deep in a heated conversation and every other player in his own little booth, paying him not a smidgen of attention.

“Just uh, got to a bit in the book that uh, well, it's got me feeling nervous and shit. Blood-pumpin' and all that, a'ight?” Mickey grouched, shifting a little to assert himself. Milo gave him a knowing grin but said nothing else, shoving himself into Seth and David's chat unapologetically so Mickey could go back to lying his ass off and pretending to read Harry Fucking Potter.

“You boys are fucking magic!” Thompson boomed out of the blue, causing his team to fall quiet and then into giggles as the man stood up with a massive smile splitting his face, banging his massive hands on the headrest of his seat. “I mean it! So proud, so fucking proud of you!”

“You keep sayin',” Bart snorted, earning himself a clip around the ear.

“Can it, Senlintsky. I'll fucking say it much as I buggerin' well _like_ , thank you.”

 

 

Louie had managed to get Mickey drunk, ridiculously so. Even though Mickey had not wanted to be present at the party, let alone drinking at it, Louie had somehow manoeuvred him into the throw of it and gotten half a bottle of Jack down his neck without Mickey even realising what it was until the dizzying intoxication hit him, leaving him feeling soft and pleasantly happy for the first time since he'd been post-coital in bed with Ian and his presence and his smell _everywhere_.

“Mick!” Mickey spun and cheered like he was high, hugging his dads tightly. “Someone's smashed!” Dean laughed, beaming at his son for a second as Mickey planted the wettest kiss he could on Richard's cut cheekbone.

“Love you guys,” he giggled, the slur just on the cusp of coming out to play, but not quite there. “Louie did it, blame him and his need to see me _smile_!” Mickey crowed, winking at Louie where he stood with his arm around Mandy's neck and his other hand clutching a bottle of something bright pink and alcoholic, grinning like he'd been given the key to life. Apparently his talk with Jake had cleared the air, though he had yet to divulge what had been said and Mickey didn't want to know, really, but Louie would no doubt tell him soon enough. All that Mickey was concerned about was that his best friend was no longer beating himself up over it, and Jake was smiling and behaving in his usual way, joking and messing around like nothing had happened. Even intoxicated as he was, Mickey could see the stupid smiles they shot each other, the lingering stares and the odd brush of hands whenever one or the other passed a drink. He wasn't stupid; Mickey could see something there, but whether or not they acted on it or kept it a _what-happens-at-the-olympics_ kind of thing wasn't going to be his foremost thought. If they were happy and no longer at a stalemate, then Mickey could drink and wallow in his own self pity again, smiling for the world while his insides broke apart every time someone came through the door that wasn't Ian. He hadn't managed to speak for more than five minutes on the phone the previous night, Svetlana hollering in the background while Ian swore until he was breathless that _this isn't fucking fair, Lana! I wanna talk to my beau-friend! Get it? Hah- No, Lana, no don't you dar-_

“Whoa, kiddo, lost you there,” Richard waved his hand in front of Mickey's face, his son not realising he'd spaced out completely while Dean had been praising him and looking near to tears with how much he loved his son. “You doing OK, Mick?” Richard asked softly, his hand coming to rest on Mickey's shoulder in a squeeze.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just thinking,” Mickey shook his head and necked the rest of whatever was in his plastic cup. He hadn't lied, but then he hadn't told the honest truth either. He'd already had Louie on his ass, he didn't want or need his dads cooing over him, not with the state he was in anyway. It'd make for sobbing and snotty noses and all Mickey really wanted was Ian, but as he couldn't have him, dancing and more drink were his best bet to cheer up and forget the hours until the skater glided back into his life.

Nearing the end of the party, Mickey had sat on the floor and declared it his land and anyone who dared approach would be obliterated by his stare alone; Louie had taken the challenge on and somehow they'd ended up in Louie's room with a handful of the team after Mickey had shocked the hell out of him by getting up and giving chase like he hadn't had a bottle of Jack and five shots already. The fact that Louie had the tightest, fitted skinny black jeans on had warped in Mickey's mind, his thought process telling him that his best friends backside was a puck and he had to catch it. He had landed the hardest smack once he had Louie trapped in his hotel room, bent over the sofa as he'd not looked when barging in and had hit it, toppling enough to present his ass to Mickey's chortling entrance, and _crack._

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl I gotta see you tonight! Waahooooaaa!” Louie screeched, sway-dancing with a bottle in his hand in the air, his legs bouncing him around his spread out living area; the sofa's had been pushed out of the way and the coffee table was somewhere in the bedroom, maybe even the bathroom.

“I go for a piss, and this is what I come back to?” Mickey motioned at Louie fucking the air, screaming along to his music playing down his earbuds. Their coach had appeared not long after the party had moved upstairs and told them to keep it the fuck down or deal with the dragging – Jake had suggested a silent disco, linking up any pods they could to a dock in the kitchenette. “Lou, get off the fuckin' windowsill!”

Jake snorted and readjusted his earbuds, “Hah, guess you're sleepin' with him tonight, mister baby-sittah!”

“Fuck off, you're doin' it!” Mickey sniped, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head _what, what, what son_ when Jake gave him bug eyes and paled. “ _You_ let him at the damn bottles, you watch his snorin', kickin' lanky blond ass- _Louie_ , get _off_ the fuckin' windowsill! _Goddamnit_ , Jake, get him down!”

“Oh, boy, I love you so, never ever gonna let you go!” Louie squeaked, jumping down before anyone could get him, wiggling his hips and kicking out his feet. He advanced on Mickey as his tempo changed, clearly, from pop to club, practically climbing up on Mickey like he was a pole and if Louie worked him enough, he'd get cash raining on him.

Mickey barely moved, staring at the window and it's messed up display, “Lou.”

“I'm hot. You're hot, damn. It's gettin' hot in here, Mick, so uh, you know, take it off!” Louie breathed into Mickey's ear, giggling himself stupid while his hands snaked around to grab Mickey's ass and-

“OK, get the fuck back, idiot. You don't grab that.”

“Oh, forgot! It's Ian's!” Louie sniggered, falling a little into Mickey before staggering off to Jake, wrapping him in a bear hug. “You're so wonderful. Just a pretty Lynne- Mickey, why aren't you dancin'? Shake that ass, watch yo'self!”

Mickey flipped the bird and stuffed his earbuds back in, ignoring everyone and everything except a deep bassline and Jack in his glass. A silent disco in Louie's hotel room wasn't all that bad, if the host kept his hands to himself, so Mickey lost himself for a while, swaying this way and that, his brain foggy and fun. When a song burst into his ears that he absolutely fucking _loathed_ , he automatically began wiggling himself and really busting out moves, because much as he swore blind he couldn't dance, Mickey knew full well could work a stage and never run out of willing patrons. He just couldn't dance on ice skates, not that Ian knew that, something he'd find out as a treat, Mickey's dirty sector plotting already. He turned and winked at Louie who was in a similar state of _I hate_ _this_ _but_ _damn_ _it's_ _the_ _best_ _song_ _ever,_ shaking his body like he was made of jelly while trying to snapchat something, so Mickey turned and lost himself some more in Eurovision saxophone music.

**Faded – Alan Walker**

“Oh I _love_ this!” Jake cheered overly loud, covering his mouth when everyone scoffed at him, the dolt having forgotten he wasn't actually in a room with music. Mickey shook his head and accepted Louie's hand when he sashayed over, dancing with his friend in a childish fashion, swinging their arms and heads before the beat kicked in, then they were bumping hips and kicking their feet together, back-to-back wriggling with exacerbated fondling of flesh. Then Louie was gone and groping Jake, swinging around to smack Milo's ass before grinding up on Shaun, leaving Mickey to finally hear the song and the words and he stopped, the ache in his chest sending him reeling, stumbling back against the sofa nearest the kitchenette now his anchor was dancing on his bed. It felt like fire and butterflies and knives in one great punch. _Where are you now? Was it all in my fantasy? Where are you now? Were you only imaginary?_

“Hey, you OK dude?” Jake took Mickey's earbud out and his frowning face appeared; such a sweet guy, Jake, someone Mickey adored and the drink in his system told him Jake wouldn't mind if he cried a little bit, but a little bit soon escalated into a sob and Mickey ran before he could think. He ignored the clatter and smash of whatever he knocked off the breakfast bar, he ignored the hand trying to pull him back in the room with a terrified voice shouting at him _wait, Mickey, stop! Stop!_ As he tore the door open and flew out of it, barrelling down the hallway to his own room only he didn't stop, he kept going to the end and around the corner, running away from the song, from the pain, but he couldn't escape it, that feeling of dread, of _you left me and you promised you wouldn't_.

“Stop, please...” Mickey sobbed, reaching the other end of the hall and his feet kept him going, taking him away from something he just couldn't fucking get rid of. He took the door to the second stairwell and barely caught the rail, jumping down two or three steps a time. He realised, as his knees ached and his shins stung, that he still had the earbuds in and it wasn't his head, just music. He ripped them out and threw them down the centre of the stairwell, grinning when they clacked and sang against the stone and carpet. He could breathe properly, jogging down until he could leave through a heavy door, instantly enveloped into party-goers as he'd come out near the conference halls. Music assaulted his ears again as he was nudged and pushed through to where people spread out and the main party boomed out music. He listened, he had no choice, and he was pretty sure the universe was out to get him now - _I will never forget you, you will always be by my side. From the day that I met you, I knew that I would love you til the day I die. And I would never want much more, and in my heart I will always be sure. I will never forget you, and you will always be by my side, til the day I die._

“Fuckin-” Mickey shoved someone out of the way and tried _so hard_ to escape, but it was impossible; people closing in on him to the point where he felt consumed by them and their stupid bouncing dancing and smiling faces. By some saving grace, despite everything being hell bent on upsetting him and reminding him how alone he was, the crowd slowed as the music broke for a bridge and Mickey took his chance, bolting out from between hot bodies and out through the halls of the hotel until he was in a quiet area, utterly alone. Anger quickly took over and he kicked a litter bin with more force than really necessary, feeling guilty straight away, wiping his mouth a few times while he paced. Deciding against fixing what he'd done, he stormed off in search of an exit and when he managed to get outside, he crouched down in the snow and aimed to control his blood and breathing by keeping his eyes on the snow between his shoes. He hated emotions, seriously hated them, and when they bunny-fucked with alcohol... well.

“Excuse me, Sir, are you well?” a clipped voice asked, their accent extremely apparent to Mickey's clouded ears. He hated his ears – how dare they betray him by letting in all of that? “Sir?”

“Uh, yep, yeah. I'm fine, just needed to calm down a bit is all. You can leave me to myself, thanks and please,” Mickey muttered, pleased when he heard a click of a tongue and disappearing footsteps. He rubbed his nose and stood up, patting his clothes for his smokes and lighter, sparking up regardless of where he was because fuck this and that and everything right now. Pity Ian wasn't there, because fuck that too, against the wall or in the snow for all to see because he was Mickey's, Ian was his and people should know that. Where was he? Why did he leave? “Stop. It,” Mickey bit out under his breath, clenching his jaw to grind his teeth a little, hoping the noise and pain would shut his head up for a minute maybe.

“You know,” drawled a thick accent from over Mickey's shoulder, “Talking to yourself will make people think you're mad. But then, I already know that, don't I?”

“Oh, for _fucking_ hellfire's sake, ball busting universe, you can go fuck yourself with a spade, right now!” Mickey turned and pointed with all the hatred he could at Luke, “ _You_ , fuck off, right now. I ain't in the fucking mood for your smug ass face or your bastardized personality either. Get away.”

Luke sneered and came closer, “You always talk to me like I'm nothing.”

“Yah, 'cause that's exactly what you are,” Mickey spat, flicking his ash away while blowing out smoke, eyeing Luke where he stood, arms folded over his broad chest, a nasty look on his face.

“You deserve that though, nothing, because you're just a broken fucking shell of a man who isn't worth the time it takes to flush a toilet, let alone the time it takes to bend you over and-”

“Shut. Your filthy. Fucking. Mouth.”

“Oh ho, such a nasty little piss-stain,” Luke growled, using Mickey's drunken state and frazzled mind to have him on his back in the snow before he could even put his hand out to block the punch that hit against his teeth. Pain bloomed in Mickey's jaw, then against his temple, his ribs and his thigh where Luke knelt on him to keep his body down.

“Luke, fuc-” Mickey's words cut off as hands wrapped around his neck, Luke's snarling face looming over him in the dark while Mickey did everything he could to wriggle, roll, kick and claw at and gouge the guys bare forearms.

“Not so fucking vulgar and brave now, are you?”

“No, but I fucking well am, motherfucker!” Luke was gone in a flash, Mickey's vision filled with spots while he sucked in air with a desperate whine. There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh, grunts of pain and swears and clothes being roughed about. “Stay the fuck down Sir Chokes A Lot, bloody hell. Hey, mate, you all right?”

“Johnston?” Mickey croaked, accepting the juggernaut's meaty hand up. Of all the guys.

“Yep. The hell was he doing? Oh, yeah, I know who he is and all that shit. Surprised you haven't got a conjunction on him or anything, but, then again, did you expect him to come here and try to murder you in the snow on your party night? Nope, don't think that ever crossed your mind. What a total twazzock!” the Brit turned and gave a heavy glare down at the snow where Luke lay moaning in pain. “Stay there, mate, else I'll call my lads over and you'll fucking know you've touched the wrong one. Who d'you think you are, eh? Doing that to someone, never mind who, arsehole. Hey, Milkovich?”

Mickey blinked and absently rubbed his jaw, “Mmm?”

“Go inside, mate. Your coach is with mine, I know that much-”

“Kid, where you gone?”

“Over here! There's was trouble so I sorted it out!” Johnston yelled, his voice drowning out as heavy footsteps crunched the snow.

“Oh shit, boy, what you done this time?” a lanky Brit shook his head while three others crowed and held their heads in distress.

“ _Mate_!”

Johnston put his hands up, “Wait a second. Milko- sorry, _Mickey_ here, was in spot of bother with this chap here. Had Mickey by the throat like he was going to choke him out, lad. Now, I ain't one for sticking my beak in but I recognised him down there and had to do something. I kind of owe Mickey for fucking him over in practice and then subsequently, unknowingly so mind you, sending all the others after him to test his brawling skills out. Sorry about that, Mickey, wasn't intended. You know how it is,” the guy gave Mickey a little apologetic smirk and Mickey found his face curling into a grin.

“Hockey is as it is,” Mickey shrugged, earning a wink from the giant Brit.

One of the other guys stepped forward and nodded down at Luke still moaning on the floor, “Who's he then?”

“Luke Hibbert,” Mickey spat, turning to curl his lip at the guy himself.

“Oh, holy shit, oh fuckin- Mickey Milko- oh. _Oh_. Shit man, yeah that's uh, yeah. Yes,” the lad coughed and looked sheepish while Mickey swallowed the blood in his mouth.

The other two simultaneously hushed _fuck_ , quietly but with a serious amount of emotion behind it. “Yeah. Look, we should just leave him to wallow,” Mickey suggested, wanting to forget this bullshit and go to bed.

“No can do, mate,” Johnston said, shaking his head. “I hit him pretty hard and, cuntish as he is, if I leave him and something happens, well, enough said. Look, I'm going to find my coach and as he is with yours, I'm sure I can take this arse with me and let Thompson know what he's been playing at. Maybe he'll get himself a ticket home, hm?” he said cheerfully, shifting so his team mates could haul Luke's heavy, whiny carcass up and away. Johnston clapped Mickey's shoulder, “Hey, uh, I know it's not exactly common knowledge, you know, what he did and all that, but if it's any consolation, we all know, we all fucking hate him, we hated him before, we hate him even more now and after seeing that? You won't have to worry about him any more, mate. Playing on the ice is one thing, dog-eat-dog, but out here, fuckheads don't get to play like that. Your boys can't do anything while you're still in-game, but we got outed so... We got your back, Mickey kid, no bother. Now, you belter, get some sleep 'cause you'll no doubt need it come morning with your coach after this! What a total fucking dick...” Johnston left, muttering and laughing to himself while Mickey watched, his speech stunted by shock because _what just happened_.

Lighting up a new cigarette, Mickey wandered out front of the hotel, people watching while his lip throbbed and his head swam in peaceful waters. Huffing out a thick plume, he turned lazily and glanced for a split second at the walkway leading to the front doors, his brain screaming at him that Ian was standing there with his bag, watching with a fond, dopey smile on his pink face, hair ruffled by the light breeze and his entire being illuminated by the glow of the uplight next to him. Just when he thought it was safe to think, the universe attacked him with false imagery and hurt his heart all over again. He squinted and looked away, cursing out whatever diety was listening.

“Thought you'd be pleased to see me, Mick!” Now that wasn't fair either, hearing his amused voice-

“Hold the _fucking_ phone...” Mickey whispered, staring at the snow in confusion for a moment before he turned slowly, so very slowly, in case the vision moved, and found himself face-to-face with the stealth creeper himself, flashing his red brows up cheekily. “You're-”

“Back? Yeah, press stint finished early so we came back earlier than planned, and in a helicopter, can you believe that?” Ian chuckled and fished out his phone. “Tried calling you but it rang out,” he said sadly, softly and sweetly all at once. Mickey's heart wept and his head emptied of all sad and traitorous thoughts.

Mickey stared. “Left it in my room this afternoon after we got back because we had a conference to go to and then a party and I haven't been back but _what the fuck_ , you're _real_ and here. Ian, fuck Jesus, come here,” he rushed, catching the person he'd missed so badly around the neck, tugging him close and hard and warm and so very real against him in a desperate hug of relief. “ _God_ , I've missed you, you dork,” Mickey whispered into Ian's neck and collar, his scarf tickling Mickey's chilled lips.

“Not as much as I've missed you. Mickey, missed you so bad, _so bad_ ,” Ian said thickly, fisting his hands in the back of Mickey's USA jacket, burying his nose in his shoulder. “Proud of you. I watched the match on the TV we had access to. You're so damn good, moo, so fucking proud of you! Oh my God, my beau-friend is a pro hockey player.”

Fucking beau-friend, _Christ_. Mickey pulled back a little and smiled, wiping a stray tear from Ian's cheek with his thumb, “I'd say thank you, but it's not enough.”

Ian winked and went to smile, ducking to kiss Mickey's cheek, only he faltered and he pulled away further, “The fuck happened to your face?”

“Got slammed.”

“Liar! Come off it, Mick, that's fresh- your neck, Mick,” Ian looked stricken, angry too, as he checked over every inch of skin he could. “Mickey, who did this?” Ian's voice was hard and cold and, as calm as he was, Mickey could see the livid fire in his eyes like he was staring into the sun.

Scratching his nose out of nervous habit, Mickey glanced down and around until Ian caught his gaze and silently pushed him for an answer, and rather than bare-faced lie because he just couldn't with Ian, Mickey shrugged, “Luke.”

“Luke did that to you?” Ian repeated, already stepping back.

“No, Ian, don't. Leave it, all right? He got his ass handed to him- Ian! Fuck, wait, please?” Mickey still had his cigarette in his hand and his drunken brain was fogging up again in panic, searching for somewhere to put the butt without littering or whatever and by the time he'd chucked it because _fuck it_ , Ian had ran ahead and disappeared through the hotel doors, leaving Mickey in a fit of swearing nervousness to haul his bag inside, knowing he wasn't going to locate him fast enough. As he lumbered in, Mickey cursed every name and word he could, cursed the day Luke Hibbert was born because no matter what, that motherfucker ruined _everything_ without even trying. Days of waiting and hurting and aching and needing Ian, and now he was gone again, on the hunt to maim if his expression had given much away, and Mickey could only, once again, wait him out. Pinching his nose, Mickey sat on a sofa in the foyer and closed his eyes, hoping to God when he opened them that these past days had been nothing but a dream and he'd find Ian curled around him. Fat chance – the universe was on his ass today.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke is bastard.
> 
> Am i, for doing that? Sorry if it was bad, it just.... yep. SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE! i.e. the next update WHICH will be sooner, not gonna ever take as long again. i hope. i cant help getting sick or bruised or dragged into a depressive anxiety swamp.... love you guys xx


	16. Sorry Isn't Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's reaction to what Luke did pulls an adverse reaction from Mickey who is left dealing with his own fall out. Louie is more than he appears when he gives Mickey insight and Mickey makes, and learns, a very discreet statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, late. I am so very sorry! Had some things to deal with but they're mostly dealt with now :} your patience is a virtue i can only wish for! I have been asked before about more interaction from the dads, one in particular, and he comes into play, Louie being more of a rock than a slide (always is though, he's just Louie, comes in various degrees) and i was asked once if Ian and Mickey could ever fight so early on, and i said no, but, well, they could, it turns out, even if it is only something born from overreactions. 
> 
> Warnings: swears, as usual. emotion. A lot of it. This chapter is very emotional. What can I say? Mickey can't handle himself sometimes and his mouth runs, but he is honest enough to know when he fucked up and what to do about it. Just... i hope you like this :} love you guys!!!!! I don't know how big this is to you, but it's 11 pages to me... also, i'm working on my big bang so, busy bee and i keep getting confused between the two lol

Mickey was shaken awake lightly and he groaned as bright lights assaulted his sore eyes and head.

“Hey, kid,” Mickey rubbed the heel of his hand into his right eye socket and peered with his left at the worried face of Richard kneeling on the floor, his eyes soft and searching.

“What are you still doin' here?” Mickey croaked, sitting up and regretting the action instantly. The room span a bit and he sighed gratefully when his dad produced a bottle of water.

“Jake called dad 'cause apparently you bolted in a state and he freaked out a little. Thought your head was a mess so I came up to search you out. Dean's uh, well, he wanted to body surf down the slopes,” Richard smiled a little and Mickey scoffed, necking the water.

“Drunk then?”

Richard cackled loudly as he stood and moved to sit on the opposing sofa, “Absolutely fuckin' _wasted_ , kid. It's hysterical and a little worrying. Mandy's babysitting for me, bless her.” Richard was watching Mickey with a gentle light to his eye, his hands wringing between his knees and Mickey gave him a little smile now he throat wasn't so clogged.

“You just get here? Fuck, how long was I out?” Mickey rubbed his forehead and happened to catch sight of a familiar bag on the floor, buried against the foot-board of the sofa. “Where is he?”

“OK, one at a time. First, I got here about ten minutes ago, so second, you've slept for at least ten minutes and third, uh...” Richard sat back and ran a hand through his thick hair and Mickey felt his stomach roll and not because of the contents swishing out. That was a habit his pops had alike to Mickey's own nose rubbing and Louie's cuff picking – he was nervous. Worse still, Richard's knee began bouncing and Mickey closed his eyes, sucking on his lip because that only ever came before his dad would spill something he really hated hearing.

“Much as you would like to withhold whatever it is, I haven't seen him for days and I see him for five minutes, _if that_ , and then he goes off on a warpath and now you're like this and fuck, dad, spit it out, please?” Mickey begged, shaking a little because fuck, Ian went after _Luke_.

Richard swiped his lower lip with his thumb and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees to keep them still while he gave a shaky breath and looked Mickey in the eye, “He's been arrested.”

Mickey felt his blood run to his feet in an icy cold rush, “What? Why?”

“Well, Thompson was the first person I saw kid, I came right through here without spotting you and I found him in a room near the party, right? He was so angry, Mick, red faced and shaking like an earthquake. I asked what the fuck was going on because I was terrified it was something to do with you, given that I could hear Luke screeching behind the door. He told me what happened and started going off on one about the fucker, about British saviours and stupid, emotional redheads,” Richard sighed and flashed his brows up, “I asked what that meant and he said Ian had come through like some kinda bull and taken Luke down with a smack in the mouth-

“He _hit_ him? _He_ hit _him_?!” Mickey started to sweat because if Ian had landed a punch then what had Luke done in retaliation? “The fuck was he thinkin'? _That_... he's dangerous!”

Richard put his hands out in a calming manner, “Hey, don't go there, OK? There's no ambulances or anything, right? Look, Thompson had already collared security to deal with Luke but they called the police up because of what it was that he'd done. They happened to come in while Ian was grappling with Luke on the floor, didn't see the hit, but they were wrestling so they both got arrested. Joe's trying to calm the situation, don't know how, but he's got it handled. Ian's in one of the back rooms being asked a shit ton of questions, obviously, before they decide if he's going to a station. Luke's been hog tied, which is great, but still. Might wanna ask you some stuff too... Son, I know he got you around the neck, has done it twice since being here... why'd you not say anything before, you know, about the other incident?”

Mickey stared at the floor between his feet and folded his fingers in and around each other to keep his mind calm. It wasn't really working. “Didn't want you worrying. Look at what's happened for fuck sake, you think neither one of you would have reacted the same? I didn't think Ian would hit him, not for a second, but I know you or dad would've bladdered Luke and you'd have gotten in serious trouble for it. _Again_. Wasn't gonna allow that.”

“Mickey, know you won't want to hear this but that was fucking stupid to keep from us. We could have had him dealt with before this 'almost'. Mickey, he could have choked you to death if that guy hadn't seen him. You know that bastard is relentless, keeps on like a viper, strike and after strike until he gets what he wants. If he'd managed... _Mickey_ ,” Richard looked both pissed off and terrified, wet eyed and desperate. Mickey could understand that now it'd been put in words but still, it was done now and Ian was copping the shit for it. What if he got kicked out for this? Would Mickey even get chance to see him before they loaded him on a plane? Would his career be fucked because of this? Because of being involved with Mickey? God, he'd regret him. Ian would regret Mickey.

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, fighting the fears and his mind's lies, or rather, trying to fight them. They were _loud_.

“It's not true,” Richard's voice was low and sure and Mickey snapped his gaze up to see his pops shaking his head with certainty, “Whatever you're thinking up and you know it. I can see it written on your face as clear as the logo on your jacket. He's not going to hate you because of this, if anything moo, because of what I've observed so far, he's probably going to think _you'll_ drop him like hot shit. He acted on emotion, emotion you don't get if you feel nothing for someone. He cares and he lashed out in your defence, so that's not someone who's going to bail on you and think what the fuck was I doing getting wrapped up in that? Stop worrying.”

“I'm more fuckin' frightened he's going to lose his career over this and get booted out of the damn country because of me. Don't you say it isn't because it is. Wouldn't be arrested for hitting someone right now if it weren't for me because if he wasn't seeing me, he wouldn't have fuckin' felt he needed to 'cause there'd be no situation in his life like this, fuck, Jesus dad, why does _he_ fuck everything up?” Mickey swung his head as he moaned and tipped forward, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to fight off the onslaught of tears bubbling up.

“Luke is hell-spawn, all there is to it. Stop thinking like that son, OK? It's all _what ifs_ right now, s'all it is, nothing's certain,” Richard soothed as he reached to pull Mickey's hands down and fall to his knees again on the carpet, circling Mickey with his steady presence and strong arms.

“Mickey?” Ian's voice was gentle and soft when it called out and Richard pulled away quickly, settling back in his chair as Ian's legs came into Mickey's blurry view. “Mick-”

“Did he hurt you?” Mickey asked quickly, scanning Ian's healing bruises for signs of new ones. Ian shook his head _no_ and Mickey gave a brisk nod.

“You're not in handcuffs, kid, that's good eh?” Richard smiled, feeling the tension rolling through the air from Mickey.

Ian chuckled a little and rubbed the back of his neck, “Thompson has a magical mind. Told them Luke had been apprehended beforehand, as he had, and that when Thompson had gotten him in the room to hold for security, Luke had gone for him as I walked in and I put myself in the way, ended up on the floor. They asked who I was, we explained I am a close friend of one of Thompson's players and part of the US team so I'd been looking for the coach in search of Mickey. Sharp mind in that guy's head, huh?”

“Yeah he's-” Richard was cut off by Mickey clearing his throat with a curse word.

“The fuck did you think you were gonna solve by knockin' his teeth down his neck, huh?” Mickey snapped, standing up with a sniff and wipe of his eyes, jabbing Ian's chest with a sharp finger. “What did you go and do that for?”

“I'm sorry, Mickey, I just... I saw the marks and I couldn't stop myself. I shouldn't have done anything, but I did and that's that now isn't it? I'm sorry, so sorry for behaving like that but can you blame me? _He hurt you_ , Mickey,” Ian was trying, he really was, and Mickey could see his sadness and desperation pouring from his every cell. Still, he was stupid and Mickey hated that he'd done something on his behalf.

“I _told you_ to leave it alone 'cause he'd had his ass handed to him already. He's not your problem, it's not your fight!” Mickey hissed, pacing now much to Ian's despair and his pops annoyance.

“You expect us to sit back and do nothing to help when he tries to choke you? You can't expect that-”

“Fuck what you think I _expect_! I don't _need_ any of you stickin' your fuckin' noses in my business thinkin' that I should be thankful for it!” Mickey growled, his hands shaking because god _damnit_ , he was mad and he was taking it out on Ian. It wasn't him he was mad at, it was Luke.

Richard put his hand up and levelled his son with a calm look, “Mickey, calm down.”

Mickey's mouth was running ahead of his brain, “ _Calm_ \- D'you guys have _any_ idea how fuckin' terrifying that man is to me? Huh? What, you think a smack in the teeth is gonna keep him from me now? If anythin', you've made it fuckin' worse 'cause what are you guys gonna do once we get back to the US, hm? He knows where I live! He knows my routine! He's gonna be pissed as fuck and guess who's gonna cop the fall out? Me! Fuck if I care how selfish I sound right now but you have _no idea_ , none!” he spat, hating himself as he said it but fuck, he couldn't stop now he was going. He was angry and they were cornering him, staring at him like he was someone else entirely, as if they had the nerve to feel hurt that he wasn't on bended knee. He turned from his dads hurt expression and stared hatefully at Ian who was watching him in shock, “You can't do this kinda shit. You can't go flyin' off the handle, being all protective 'cause you think it's justified. It's not, where he's concerned, he's my fuckin' boogie man. I'm someone who doesn't _need_ , doesn't _ask_ for protection 'cause what does it do really? It causes more harm than good and I certainly don't fuckin' need or want it from someone who _doesn't_ fuckin' know me. You don't even know where I actually live so what you gonna do when we get back huh? You've fucked this right up by thinkin' you're some goddamn hero!”

“ _Mikhaylo_! Enough!” Richard stood and looked about ready to lamp his son so Mickey shook his head, trying not to laugh bitterly at it all. He knew he shouldn't be behaving so nastily, but every time he spoke, it cut into his own heart and that's why he was doing it; to feel the pain, remind himself that all of this stupid fucking mess was _because_ of him. He'd caused every damn part of it because he was a frightened fool. Not them. Ian didn't need this in his life, he was kind and loving and wholesome and uniquely Ian. He didn't need this but he would take it anyway and Mickey didn't want it forced on him so, his only option was to keep Ian from the disaster that was Mickey.

“I... Mickey, I-” Ian was trying, trying so hard to get across how sorry he was, Mickey could see it written all over him and yet, he couldn't break the nasty cycle he was in. “I'm so sorry! I didn't think. Could you honestly tell me you wouldn't react the same way if you'd seen someone's hand prints around the neck of someone you loved?” Ian implored, moving closer but Mickey stepped back with a shake of his head. He had to take his choice away even if it killed Mickey to do it.

He cringed as his mouth opened, ignoring his dads incredulous stare while he flared his nose and clenched his jaw to keep the words in, knowing he didn't want to say them, _he really didn't_ , but he ended up spitting them through his teeth because this was the only way he could give Ian a life free of painful and possible violent situations – those bruises, he couldn't live with himself if he was ever the reason for any more- stress, anxiety fixing routines and panic-blocking measures. Mickey was a liability for Ian and he didn't ever want to be that, he didn't want to selfishly rope the skater into that just because he gave him a new vantage in life. It wasn't fair. He'd just been arrested for God sake and why? Mickey. He felt sick.

“You stay the hell away from me, you hear me?” Mickey said coldly and Ian jumped, his agony on show for all the see and fuck, if that didn't hurt Mickey enough then vomiting, “You're no better than that fucker in there!” obliterated him. He didn't stick around to see the destruction he'd just caused no matter how much he wanted to throw himself on the floor and beg for forgiveness because he was _wrong_. He was no better, really, not Ian. So he'd not used a fist, but he may as well have used a gun and shot Ian point blank in the chest, then his pops. God, Dean was going to rain hell on his ass. Mickey felt sick as he unlocked his hotel room and shut the door, sliding down it to the floor where he pulled up his knees and stuffed sharp fingers into his hair, scratching and pulling while sobbing against his right knee. Ian's fearful shouts of his name, his voice damp with emotion ran around his head in a loop and it hurt. He'd done that. He was the reason for everything.

Mickey stayed sitting against his door until he couldn't squeeze another tear out, his throat dry and raw and his back aching. He jumped out of his skin when someone began pounding on the door, sucking in a sharp breath in shock.

“Mickey?” Louie called and Mickey let out the air in his chest as his body shook a little. “Moo, c'mon, open the door? I know you're sat behind it.”

“Asshole,” Mickey whispered. Of course he knew Mickey like no other did.

“Mick,” Louie lowered his voice, softening it and Mickey could see him in his head, resting his forehead against he wood, fingers curling on it desperately, “Open it, bro, it's just me out here I swear. Open the door Mickey, please? You need to talk this out and set your mind straight, work out what the fuck you're thinking right now because from what I've heard, that wasn't you down there but someone wearing your skin. Normally I'd leave you alone, you know? But... no, you're not hiding from this. I can help, moo, please?”

“Lou,” Mickey sighed, tipping his head back against the door. He thought his tear duct was on empty, clearly not as his eyes refilled and his lip quivered.

“C'mon, open the door?” Louie tried again and this time Mickey heard his fingernails scratch the door a little. “I'll sit out here all night if I gotta, talk through the door and stuff, if that's what you want. I kinda don't want that, I want in there so I can fuckin' hug you man, show you we know you aren't the asshole you think you are right now. We get it Mick, but you gotta get rid of this cloud first before you can see clear, right? C'mon, you know you want a hug off me,” Louie's voice curled like he was smiling, tempting Mickey, muffled as it was through the door and Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, “I give the best hugs, moo, you're missin' out...”

Mickey wanted to get up and crawl into his bed and block Louie out but he just couldn't do it. He stood up and wiped at his face before turning and turning the handle slowly, pulling the door open with his face turned down, staring at Louie's ridiculously bright orange Nike's. “M'so _stupid_ , Lou,” even his voice sounded pathetic, wet and uneven and Louie said nothing, merely stepped forward and enveloped Mickey in his arms, using his bigger frame to push them into the room and let the door shut softly.

“You're not. He frightens you,” Louie said, letting Mickey bury his face in the crook of his neck, wetting his skin with his sneaky tears. “You always get worked up when there's the chance of a threat, even a tiny one, because you don't know if or when it's comin'. Face the man and you're cool as a cucumber but then that's because you can see him, you know where he is, what he's doin'. You're scared and that's understandable, bro, it really is. But lashing out at your pops _was_ a stupid move and then hurtin' Ian like that? Jesus Mick, you gotta be feelin' like the biggest bag of shit on the planet, huh?”

Mickey let out a shaky sob and nodded against Louie, not moving, not like he could if he wanted to anyway, Louie had him in a bear hug and was petting his hair and rubbing up and down Mickey's spine soothingly, head tipped to the ceiling so he could rest his chin on top of Mickey's head. “Dunno what the hell came over me. I felt so sick sayin'... You know, I've been waitin' for the other shoe to drop with Ian, thinkin' somethin' bad would come and rip the rug out, wonderin' if it would be him or whatever, the end of the stint, you know? It's fuckin' _me_! Me, I'm the other goddamn shoe and I drop kicked him. I'm a bastard, Lou, and all I bring is baggage loaded with shit and he don't need that.”

“Nah, you're a liar right now is what you are. Bastard? Lies. Baggage? We all got our bags... He doesn't need that? Don't believe that's for you to decide on, is it? Look, don't think like that, Mick, it's not you. You got scared man, you let it spiral and lashed out. We all do stupid shit when emotion is involved, especially when it's overwhelming ones like fear or love or even lust. Hey, the guy smacked Luke, right? Now I know he's a built fella but he's as soft as putty and as sweet a pie so, if you ask me, he did it because he cares so much 'cause damn, I'd have never thought he'd go takin' teeth out. Doesn't strike me as the violent type. But then again, moo, look at me! I'm like, yogi fuckin' bear, boo boo, I eat my picnics and walk around in a daze, soft and as dense as brick sometimes man, but someone hurts one of my family, someone I care about, you bet your ass I'm going nuclear!” Louie didn't protest when Mickey nuzzled a little closer, feeling less like his world was burning around him, finding comfort in the steady heart beat under his ear. “You're the same too, remember Mandy? That guy she dated? You took not a bit of notice of that until she came home with a black eye and let his name slip by accident and then you were at my door and we were on his porch within an hour, 'warning' him. We don't get a say in how we react when it's the heart talkin',” Louie nudged his chin to the side to have Mickey pull back a bit and winked at him, his eyes wet and sure and his smile genuine.

“Doesn't excuse what I said,” Mickey mumbled and Louie sighed heavily, his face dropping sadly so he could place a fond kiss to Mickey's cheek, holding him there as he spoke.

“Not sayin' it does, I'm just tryin' to explain that you can't help how you react in situations sometimes. Ian was wrong to hit Luke, but he did less than I would have done, Mick. You'd have been mad at me but then you wouldn't have been so harsh with me, because the love you got for me ain't the same as it is for your dad, or Ian,” Louie pushed Mickey's head under his chin again, “It's good job he's out of the building, tellin' you now, I'm gonna to fuckin' rag him so hard his teeth will fall out on their own if he ever crosses our paths again.”

“Don't go huntin' him when we get home, please?” Mickey sighed and Louie chuckled, his chest rumbling and his body shivering with it.

“I was just sayin', man, I got better shit to do than hunt motherfuckers. Hey, you got bigger things to worry about than me seeking him out...” Louie snorted and gave his friend a really grounding squeeze before moving them apart a little, cupping Mickey's face in his large hands, searching his eyes. “Mick, Ian was wrong, and I bet he knows it but his heart was in the right place. You're wrong too, for what you said, and you know that. Reactions, though, they can't be helped, only patched up, right? You need to apologise to him and make this better because he's fuckin' perfect for you and you dare deny that, I'll give you a swirly.”

Mickey gripped Louie's forearms and sucked in his lip, “Should apologise to my dad first though, before the other one wakes up from his drunk sleep and comes after me. Fuck, Louie, he didn't deserve that, he was only tryin' to calm me down.”

Louie nodded and pulled their heads together, “He understands you better than you think. He's just, I dunno, frightened he'll mess up 'cause Dean's got a gentler approach. It's always been that way though, right? I think he worries he's not good enough.”

“I fuckin' hope not!” Mickey hissed, closing his eyes. “I love him. I'll fix this. Then I'll go find Ian and fuck, grovel?”

“Better do, 'cause if you turn tail and push him away over a punch he landed to your abusive _mistake_ , like _you would_ if you flipped the coin, then say goodbye to a happy life 'cause that's what he'll give you and you know it,” Louie kissed Mickey's cheek again and pushed him back. “Letting feelings out man, shit works,” Louie said seriously and then snorted at Mickey's sarcastic scowl.

“Says the guy who tried to run from his issues, man, kiss my ass,” Mickey playfully shoved Louie's shoulder and ducked the swipe at his face.

“Yeah, and if it weren't for some grumpy asshole makin' sure I didn't flee, my shit would be festerin'. Returning the favour now and you know it's the right thing to do anyway. You ain't no horrid person Mick, you're fucking marvellous and amazing and I love you so much, you know? You fuck up sometimes, like I do, but you're there for me when I need help, and I'm here to kick your ass down the line too. Just... fuck, when you hurt, I hurt and I ain't havin' that 'cause at the moment, feelin' pretty good,” Louie smirked and Mickey thumped his shoulder again, fighting a grin down.

“Certain person responsible for that, huh?” Mickey laughed as Louie's face flushed pink and he scuffed the floor with his foot, absolutely not looking at Mickey at all.

“Fuck off,” he snapped softly, winking when he gave Mickey a sly look. Louie straightened and pulled Mickey to the door, hugging him close with an arm around his shoulders as he open it and took his friend into the corridor. He didn't say a word in the elevator, nor when he walked Mickey into the foyer and turned him towards a corner that held a sorry looking Richard sitting on a sofa with his face in his hands. Mickey's heart hurt and he felt himself go eerily tingly with shame. Louie still said nothing, merely hugged him a little harder and kissed Mickey's crown, pushing him towards his dad with a face that Mickey dared not argue against. With Louie's centering presence gone, Mickey felt a little off kilter as he crept towards his pops and nearly fell over when Richard somehow knew Mickey was there; his face rubbing stopped and he froze up a bit, raising his face slowly in Mickey's direction. He didn't look mad or ruined, just tired. It cut Mickey right across his heart and he hated himself in that moment. This was his _dad_. Not pops, the one who stood back and watched, the bull in a china shop when someone hurt his kids, this was the guy who had protected him at his weakest, raised him into the man he was, loved him without question.

“I am _so_ fucking sorry, dad,” Mickey rushed fiercely, putting his hand up when Richard looked like he was going to argue that and moved closer still. “No, I am and I have reason to be sorry so don't say I shouldn't apologise like you usually do. I said shitty things, I lashed out and I shouldn't have. I can't control my mouth when my head stuffs full of emotion, you know that, but it's no excuse and I don't want you to be all 'it's OK son, don't worry about it' 'cause that's unfair. Just 'cause that stuff hurts me and affects me the way it does, doesn't give me leeway to attack the people who are only tryin' to help me and keep me sane and all right. You're my dad, you're only tryin' to keep me safe and I'm sorry. I'm an ass.”

Richard's face curled on the left into a lopsided smile, so fond and full of love that Mickey nearly hit him because _stop that, I hurt you, be mad at me_. “Yeah, you _are_ an ass, a fucking _huge_ ass!” Richard said seriously, cutting his grin for a flat face as he stood, and then the grin re-curled and he snagged Mickey's neck and pulled him close to bend and press his forehead against his son, staring him in the eye, “but you're _my_ ass and I love you no matter what you do. Unless you kill someone, then I might just disown you, but that's by the by. You act in strange ways kid, I know that, and I'm not excusing you, I'm not, I just understand is all. And, you know, it takes brass to admit you were such an ass and apologise so, thank you. Asshole.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and hissed when Richard shook him by the neck a bit, chuckled deeply at Mickey's unbalanced footing, “Fuckin' stop that! Dad! Stop that, Jesus have mercy.”

“Hah, kid, you might've been as ass to me but you've really hurt that boy,” Richard sighed and pulled away, “I uh, really don't know what to say on that. Good luck? You're going to need it because if that were me and Dean, I'd be so fucking mad at him. This early on too? I don't know if I'd stick around. Can you blame him if he walks though? You don't like when I talk this way but you really cut him, and you know it, if your pained face is telling me right.”

“I know. Christ do I know,” Mickey sighed and looked at his feet, kicking the carpet a little while his twisted his fingers together painfully hard. “I won't blame him at all. Hey, uh, you know where he went? I don't think he went to his room did he?” Mickey asked shyly, sheepish and feeling like refried shit.

“No, he went outside with his bag.”

Mickey nodded, “I know where he is.”

Richard looked fond and surprised about that, nodding approvingly, “You go find him and then kiss and make up yeah? I know you hurt him and he acted stupid but I don't think he wants to walk away from you. I saw his face before he bolted and I saw his body physically jerking like he fighting to keep still and not run after you. He was worried about you, not what you'd said. I know these looks. I see them on your dad, feel them on myself, see them on Louie... on your face right now. Call me when you're smiling again, yeah? I won't tell dad either, he doesn't need to know about a blip,” Richard said quietly, kissing Mickey's temple before tugging him close for a rib crushing hug, the best kind of Richard hug. Mickey wanted to drown in his dad's safety, hide there and never come out again but he had to find Ian and stitch the cuts up.

“I do love you, dad.”

“I know, son.”

 

–

As late as it was, early hours of the morning and pitch outside, and yet not because of the snow, the resort didn't seem to want to sleep at all. People still milled about, albeit more quietly and not as many, and the lights were illuminated along the walkways, bright like runaways and hypnotising mysterious trails. Mickey ducked his chin down into the collar of his coat and haunched himself a bit more to ward off the chill creeping in. It wasn't breezy, no, the air was still and the snow kept the temperature at a nice level; it was more to do with his feet chilling because he hadn't thought to put on extra socks and cold feet always sent his body into a deep freeze. He kept his sight low as he crunched off the walkway and down the silent and shaded path, the leading light out because of the time, the area supposedly closed off and would look like it if not for the fact that light burst from around the corner and there were no barriers up with it being a through route. Mickey slowed his steps and ducked behind a pine, watching Ian skate around on the ice sadly, not even really doing much other than swaying and kicking his feet to keep moving. Without the fairy lights on, and only the light from the heater on one of the parasols, in dark blue, Ian wasn't all too easy to spot with being bundled up and skating softly, making hardly any sound.

When the skater sniffed and rubbed his gloved hand under his eye, coughing to clear his throat wetly, Mickey felt his heart crack again. All indicators said the guy was crying and Jesus, if he was, Mickey didn't know what he'd do to fix that. Maybe he was just emotional, tired and feeling like shit because yeah, why wouldn't he be feeling that way? Mickey sighed and rubbed his nose, sucked in a deep breath and gingerly strode out from hiding spot and approached the little rink and tucked his hands in his pockets, watching Ian glide around.

“Can you get off there for a second, please?” Mickey called after a steady silence, making Ian skid to a halt and turn to look at him. He was staring like Mickey couldn't be real, his mouth open in shock.

“Mickey-”

“Come here, _please_?” Mickey begged, jaw twitching a little as he waited. Ian gave a little nod and moved to the gate, hobbling out on his skates and only strayed a little, pointing at his feet with a look Mickey knew. _I can't walk on these_. “OK,” Mickey conceded and wandered towards Ian who looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin with nerves.

“Look, Mickey, I'm really sorry I upset you but I'm not sorry I hit him,” Ian rushed as Mickey's wandering turned into steady strides. He was boiling with feeling again, only it wasn't shame or anger this time. It was need. His body knew who he was looking at and it missed him, it was aching for Ian. He was stupid for ever thinking he could leave this guy, push him away.

“I know. I'm sorry I said what I did. Didn't mean a word of it. You're nothing like him, you're everything I need and I'm a shit for being so harsh.”

“I don't blame y-”

“Don't excuse what I did,” Mickey was close enough to see the shiny glaze over Ian's eyes, the pink flush across his nose, the agony on his face, the worry, the uncertainty, _everything_. Fuck apologies, they weren't going to convey how much he wanted to fix this. “You didn't upset me, the situation did. I wasn't mad at you, I was mad at him. You don't need my shit fucking up your life and yet you're still looking at me like I'm...” the words wouldn't leave his mouth, couldn't begin to think he was right but Ian bobbed his head and ducked it, hiding his face.

“All I want? Wouldn't look at you any other way because that's the truth still,” he whispered, “I can't fake that. I couldn't fake that even if you walk away from me.”

Mickey felt it everywhere, from his toes to his crown, the rush of adoration for this lump of idiot standing a good height over him. “If anyone should walk, it's you. Don't need my shit.”

“Might not need it, but I want it because it's you. Makes you who you are. I know you said that stuff to push me away, I could see your thought pattern, you thinking you would keep from pain if you pushed me away, cut me off. Not true, Mick,” Ian sniffed and lifted his head, his gaze soft and sure, “Would be a liar if I said it didn't hurt but it didn't hurt half as much as the thought of letting you go did. I'd hate not having you in my life, you know. That would hurt me more than any word or punch you could throw at me.”

 

Mickey couldn't speak. Ian gave a little nod and shuffled back like he was going to leave and Mickey reacted, striking cobra quick; his hands shot out and he pushed up on his toes, snagging Ian's nape and yanking him into a hard kiss. “Don't,” he growled against gasping lips.

 

“What?” Ian muttered, hands snaking up Mickey's back, grasping the fabric of his coat tightly.

“Don't you leave me,” Mickey said, pulling away a bit and looking up into shaded eyes that screamed at him what Ian felt. “I hurt you and I'm stupidly sorry.”

“Me too. Acting on feeling gets messy sometimes, hm,” Ian rubbed the tip of his nose against Mickey's, the skin icy cold and stinging. “I want to be messy though, with you.”

“Fuck, I want that,” Mickey closed his eyes and squeezed his fingers into Ian's skin, reassuring himself that Ian was a real person and not some illusion.

“You're a asshole, though, with an acid tongue you could try to keep in check,” Ian smiled and Mickey snorted, pushing his forehead against the ginger giant's.

“And you're a little bitch who doesn't think so maybe you need some sense knocked into you,” Mickey quipped cheekily, laughing when Ian's hands dug into his sides and tickled him in retaliation, pulling them close together. Kisses rained on Mickey's cheeks and nose, his jaw and neck before settling sweetly on his lips, presses and presses of chilled softness and sighs until he cupped Ian's head and tip toed to press flush against him, licking between those chilly barriers to swallow the laughter and hums.

“Should go back in, Mick, you've had a long day,” Ian said softly, pulling even closer to have Mickey's cold nose pressed into his neck.

“OK, but you're coming with me. Sleep with me, please?” he inhaled the sweet underlying scents of fruits from Ian's body wash and the natural heat of his skin as he nuzzled softly, trying to burrow in.

Ian grunted in agreement, body jumping with it, “Wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

 

–

 

Mickey was distinctively aware of how loud he was being at near three in the morning but he didn't care. Ian was ruining him from the inside out and then outside in, roll after roll of pleasure and sensation and care hitting him like lightning.

“Don't close your eyes, please, keep them open. Look me, moo,” Ian whispered, poised over him as he rocked ever so gently into his body. Ian's hair had come loose and was hanging forward over his flushed and intense face, his eyes gentle and yet imploring even though they were predatory in their consuming explosion of pupil. Mickey fought his eyelids open and gasped deeply, staring up at Ian's smiling face, reaching up from where he had been holding the skater's biceps in a cast iron squeeze, his fingers prints shockingly white when he let go to stroke down the sides of Ian's face in a soft graze of fingertips.

“Feels so good,” Mickey groaned as Ian open his mouth in a wide grin, holding deep against his prostate.

“That's all I want you to feel,” Ian assured him ass he pressed down and lifted his hands from where they had been encircling his head to run through Mickey's hair. On his back with his hips wide open and his legs bent and curled around Ian's ribs, his guy caging his waist with his own, knees bent and close enough that they caused friction with every tiny push and pull Ian's hips gave. Ian had every inch of his torso pressed to Mickey's, his heartbeat tapping a tempo against his right breast that, under his left, his own tried to match. Mickey felt like he was going to burst from his body and ascend elsewhere, so euphoric was this make up sex. But it wasn't make up sex at all; it was affirmation of the love they were nurturing, of the love they had fallen in and were now looking for a hold in to hook themselves to for as long as possible.

Ian leaned to the side a touch, just enough to hold his weight more on his elbow than on Mickey, stroking his fingers through inky hair while he watched Mickey's face twist and bliss out, Mickey watching Ian's dopey expression upon seeing what he was doing to him. He was barely moving at all, but he was so hard that he only needed to twitch his hips and Mickey could feel everything, all of the heat, the pressure, the pleasure and the explosive shocks from his prostate. His own cock was trapped between the heated, dampening skin of their bellies, the softness of the skin combined with tensing muscle gave him enough friction to keep his pleasure bar high. It wouldn't take much to have Mickey coming, he knew it and Ian did, so he kept his movements slow and sure and just on the _not enough_ side of everything.

“Don't want this with anyone else,” Ian whispered so quietly that Mickey didn't honestly know if he had spoken or if he, himself, had imagined that in his head. Ian's mouth had barely moved, like it was a breath of promise. Ian's tiny little smile assured him he had heard right, and that the stars and whirling thoughts in his head hadn't conjured it. Mickey shook his head, me neither, and parted his lips in invitation. Ian sighed and smiled like he'd been given the key to everything ever locked away, catching Mickey's mouth and abusing it with soft movements, hard presses and hot licks, moaning as they enjoyed the pleasure spikes from it, Ian's hips snapping a little harder.

Each jab against his prostate had Mickey whimpering a bit, little noises falling out between their joined lips, his fingers scratching down Ian's neck and arms, again and again. The harder Ian hit, the more Mickey felt like he was going to tear at the seams, like he was drifting into that weird haze between unconsciousness and being awake. “Ian,” he pleaded, tipping his head back, open mouthed groaning when swollen, hot lips latched onto his neck and ran along the column, dragging tongue and teeth along for the ride, breathing promises and pleasured moaned into his cells, branding Mickey.

“I got you,” Ian hummed, shifting his arms to cradle Mickey's head again, moving to pressed over him entirely again, foreheads together and eyes locked as Ian pushed in hard and so slowly it felt like an eternity before the hard pressure of his cock held sure against Mickey's prostate. Ian knew how Mickey's body worked and kept their gaze locked as he twitched, rubbing and nudging and stroking deep within Mickey just how he liked it, wanted it. “You OK?”

“Yes,” Mickey answered quickly, hands snaking down to hold Ian's ass, squeezing the flesh and kneading it hard as the pleasure built up and up. He'd been on the cusp for near half an hour already and it was making his skin burn and itch and his eyes sting and still he didn't really want to push through it. Ian was so close to him and Mickey wanted not a spore of life between them, not one particle.

“I'm gonna come Mick, I can feel it- shit, I can't stop it, oh my god,” Ian panicked, his eyes widening comically while his mouth fell over and he tensed up between Mickey's legs, pushing hard against him and into his ass. He hadn't been moving at all, barely movement, “Sh-sh Mi-ck, it's you doing this. Watching you has done this,” he laughed, trying to keep it at bay.

“ _Jesus_ I can feel that, fuckin' hell,” Mickey moaned, head rolling back as Ian swelled a little more inside him and, as Ian ducked his head, making a frustrated whine as he fought to hold off, his tiny movement caught Mickey in such a way that pleasure ran into him like a bus on a wet road and Mickey whimpered, fingers digging into Ian's hip line. “Oh, _God_ ,” Mickey didn't even recognise his own voice, so deep and wrecked and otherwordly as it was.

“Mickey,” Ian breathed, nosing along Mickey's jaw, using it insistently to get Mickey to look at him and when he did, barely able to keep his eyes from rolling in their sockets, Ian held still and took Mickey's hands, one by one, and linked their hands in the pillows beside Mickey's head. “I swear, as long as you allow me to be in your life, I will never purposely hurt you,” Ian promised, moving slowly again when Mickey swallowed hard, Ian's eyes searching his face, “I will _never_ let him hurt you again, Mick, never again.”

Mickey held his breath and stared, looking for a hint of a lie, something false but Ian was so open to him that he could search for the rest of his life and he wouldn't find it. It simply wasn't there. He meant every word. “I missed you, so much,” Mickey pushed out, groaning as Ian thrust a touch harder, his face scrunching with the movements, trying to keep in control of his libido.

“M'here now, right here, me and you,” Ian kissed his jaw and ran his lips down Mickey's tight neck while Mickey threw his head back, deep into the pillow, fingers squeezing against Ian's long digits as he took off, floating elsewhere and everywhere. He burst with noise, panting whines and grunting, moaning as Ian licked and kissed gentle promises, “The only marks your neck will ever carry again will be from my mouth, reminders of who is here now, not who was. _Fuck_ , hmmm and you don't have to be strong all the time, I'll be strong for you, here, for as long as you'll let me.”

Mickey opened his mouth and squeezed his thighs hard around Ian's ribs, “You're killing me, Christ!” this guy and his honesty, fuck. Mickey was _so close_ to blurting something.

Ian hissed, quickly latching his teeth into Mickey's shoulder as he came, his breathing harsh and his body going tight as a coil for a moment, hips pumping a little and tapping Mickey's prostate. Mickey came with a gurgle as he had pushed his head so far back into the pillows he could feel his neck cramping up, grunting in deep breaths of air while Ian moaned more dirtily into his skin _fuck you're tight._

“Did you, uh, mean what you said earlier?” Mickey asked while Ian gently wiped him down afterwards, thumbing his lip nervously even though he was sure he shouldn't be able to feel fuck all right now, not after that, Should be comatose in heaven.

Ian looked hummed and dropped the wash cloth on the towel on the floor beside Mickey's bed, shuffling his naked self into a crossed legged position by Mickey's feet. He looked soft and his hair was a mess, sticking up from Mickey letting go after his orgasm and stuffing his hands in it, pulling Ian's face into his neck so he could hold tight for a while. “I won't let him near you,” Ian assured gently, holding Mickey's feet and rubbing circles softly across the thin skin over the large joint of his big toe.

“Believe you, but I ain't on about that,” Mickey said quietly, watching Ian watch his own hands, “Earlier, when I went a bit batshit on your ass. You said something about me, if I could say I wouldn't react like that if I'd seen marks like mine on someone I loved, right?” he glanced up from Ian's swirling fingers to see Ian's face turned down, intently mapping what his fingers were doing, but Mickey could see the smile pushing his cheeks up into mounds of pinking skin.

“Yeah,” Ian breathed, his whole body moving with the giant gust, “I did.” The challenge was there in Ian's sleepy eyes, daring Mickey to ask him outright.

“Louie came to talk me down afterwards, and he said things that made sense. Yeah, I know,” Mickey scoffed when Ian popped an eyebrow and looked surprised, mostly amused, but surprised all the same, “Said we all react in different ways, which is a given, and it's more uncontrollable if it's a powerful feelin' feedin' it.”

“Hmm, he's not wrong,” Ian tipped his head, his gaze still daring even if it was brimming with amusement now, “So?”

Mickey took a deep breath and looked at Ian for second, eyes snaking over his pale skin and puffy smile, “Ask me again.”

Ian considered him for a second, and then asked softly, curiously, “Could you honestly tell me you wouldn't react the same way if you'd seen someone's hand prints around the neck of someone you loved?”

Mickey shook his head and dipped it a bit, serious as his eyebrows crept up, “If you came to me with those marks, hell would give me the deeds to Satan's throne.”

Ian smiled, a beautiful thing really, curling up more on the right side of his face, his fingers walking over and around Mickey's ankles, “So... even though I have been indirect about it, you know how I feel on the matter?” he spoke like a kid trying to wheedle treats, sweetly and yet totally not caring but _yeah, I care so much_.

Mickey nodded while biting his lip, watching Ian pretend he wasn't really interested even though he was buzzing. Mickey let his lip go, face cracking into a mirroring smile as Ian glanced up from under red brows, his eyes cheeky and bright and he pretty much filled the room with his presence, radiating sweetness and care and... “I'm right in there with you. I know _exactly_ how you feel.”

 

 

 **7:42am From Coach:** Ladies! We are through!!! We are not leaving this motherfucker without a silver medal! I am so proud of you. Be in the sports hall at 10am. We gotta battle plan because we are up against Canada. Let's fuck them up. Canada are not going to beat us this time, we are going to show them they can't fuck with us no more! LET'S GO BECAUSE WHO ARE WE?!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. ON TO THE FINALS!!!!!
> 
> Did you get Coaches hidden meaning in the text? The other hidden meanings i'm sure were clear as day ;} so very emotional, i hope you liked it guys! xxx
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr! same penname :}
> 
> Ps, for those interested, I listened to Somebody To Die For by Hurts on repeat while writing this.


	17. Sneaky Sucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's panic finally catches up to him and Ian is there to calm the turbulence it creates. The US team have practice and the guys, well, they heard about Mickey's saviours and wish to send thank you's, respectively, and Mickey gets to deliver the one for Ian: Himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! it's me... I was wondering if after all this time you'd like to read? Oh my gosh, so sorry about that.. i have no excuse. Right, so here's the next bit!! :D this is sort of, filler? I don't really think it is, much, as i write per day for this so :}  
> TRIGGER WARNING: Night terror. Panic attack. Swearing. Blow Job. (yes, BJ!)  
> ENJOY YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIES! (it's probably shockingly boring, but then, i would think that lol STOP BEING YOUR OWN CRITIC! neveerrr)

 

Mickey was sitting on the floor by the bed, knees to his chest as he stared at the carpet in front of his freezing cold toes; blood on the carpet. His. Such a stupid thing to fight over really and then he'd turned to storm off, only his foot had caught the bag and he'd hit the wall face first. He was numb, all over and inside too, nothing but the robotic motion of his functioning lungs telling him he was still in existence. Louie hadn't answered his text. Probably busy.

“He'll come back,” he murmured to himself, fingers curling and unfurling around his shins, “He'll be back. He ain't gonna want to see this...” he sighed and carefully got up, seeking out something to clean the floor with from the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards while fighting a light head. Half hidden under the sink, Mickey jumped when the door opened and shut and the sound of heavy breathing echoed behind him.

“What are you doing?” the words were cold and distant and Mickey's back flashed like a thousand pins had burst from his skin.

“Findin' somethin' to clean up with,” Mickey hated how weak he sounded. Why hadn't he thought to lock the door instead of letting it stay off the dead bolt?

A laugh barked behind him and Mickey flinched so violently he thumped his head off the U-bend, “You're a fuckin' mess, moo.”

Mickey's stomach rolled and he backed out of the cupboard and took a deep breath, looking at his hands curling into white-knuckled fists. Now or never really. Time to end this mistake once and for all. “Don't you call me that. Your right to use that fucked off-”

He didn't get to finish his growling because he was hauled up by a fist in his hair and bounced off the counter, his lips splitting and his nose blinding him with pain, painting his chin and the granite with fresh blood, “You don't speak to me like that.”

“Fuh. Goh-” Mickey couldn't see properly, hands flying to grasp at his face to ground himself before he passed clean out on the floor. Before he could clear the fizzling dots from his vision, Mickey was up off the ground, over a shoulder in a daze, the bones digging into his diaphragm making it harder and harder for him to breathe as he was carried into bedroom and thrown onto the bed with so much force his teeth clacked and his neck cramped, hands scrabbling to keep his body on the piece of furniture at least. It was no use, he bounced too much and went right over the other side and hit the wall with his back, knocking the wind out of him. His ears were screaming, not ringing, screaming white noise and Mickey swore his skull was emptying of all matter, just... hollow. Like his chest.

“Stupid boy, thinking I was going to agree to you going on a break with _Louie_. Bah, you'll only end up fucking again,” Luke snapped bitterly, upending the bag on the floor and emptying the contents out. He fished through it and tossed the items everywhere he could, uncaring as something shattered. “Shame you tripped over this, you know? And you ripped-” he lifted it up in mock shock and produced his switch blade, hacking at the bag. Dean had bought that holdall for Mickey's first hockey game. “Oh look... such a shame. Clumsy feet.”

Mickey was trying hard not to pass out, inhaling sharp breaths that tore at his ribs, “Please, I won't go anywhere, I swear!” he said thickly, blood cloying his throat, watching sadly as Luke tossed the bag. He hadn't tripped over it. He had gone to step over it and Luke had cupped the back of Mickey's head and ran him into the door frame, laughed and left with the threat that he would be back. The bar, that's where he'd been for an hour, Mickey knew it. Now he was drunk and angry. He had it in his head that Mickey and Louie were having some kind of affair, or that Mickey was generally fucking around. How could he? He was a prisoner in his own home. He wasn't allowed to go _anywhere_.

“Damn right you won't,” Luke agreed nastily, then smiled so sweetly that Mickey felt sick with confusion. “C'mere, baby, let me clean you up?”

“Y-you won't let me slip again, will you?” Mickey asked, already moving to crawl onto the bed because if he dared stay still, he'd 'slip' again. If he dared even hint that Luke had hit him or caused his injuries, he was as good as dead.

“No, no. Strip, my love, just gonna empty the tank so I don't piss all over you again. Oh, but you liked it, didn't you?” Luke hummed, winking before turning to leave the room and rummage in the bathroom down the hall. Mickey froze; the door had shut. Luke hardly ever shut the bathroom door. He had the barest amount of time before Luke was done taking a leak and he took it because if he didn't he knew that fuck was going to force him this time because there was no way in hell Mickey was going to allow Luke to touch him. Maybe he would finally kill him?

“Shit, fuck, Louie _please_ , please be back...Jesus,” Mickey hissed to himself, launching from the bed in a dizzying rush and bounced off the door frame, his dried blood coming away on his sleeve. Fuck, he was making way too much noise and he knew it, _God_ he knew it but his heart was running ahead of him, trying so hard to beat its way out and get out of the apartment first. Mickey caught the coffee table with his shin and the bathroom door slammed open, Luke thundering down the hall with a curse like no other.

“Get the fuck in _there_!” he yelled, furiously pointing at the bedroom and Mickey froze, half bent over the table where he'd put his hands out to keep the ornament from falling off. He shook his head and kept his steeling gaze on a livid Luke; Mickey whimpered and shot around the sofa as Luke growled and leapt over the coffee table, kicking the ornament into the TV screen in his tantrum. “This is only gonna make it worse, Mickey! I'll fuckin' cuff you again!” Luke snapped, trying to get a hold of Mickey but he managed to keep just out of the way of his nasty fingers. Still, flee as much as he wanted, Luke was bigger and fucking fast when he wanted and Mickey was exhausted and in agony. A hand snatching the fabricc of his t-shirt between his shoulder blades rang Mickey's death knell, yanking his feet out from under his tired body and in a snap, he was on his back, winded and choking on the floor with his abuser sat on his chest, preventing him from taking in any air at all, fingers tight around Mickey's neck, thumbs pressing in.

“Lu...plea...no,” Mickey was slipping out of his body and he knew it, clawing feebly at the skin of Luke's forearms, barely leaving red welts as Luke sneered down at him.

“Hey,” Luke bent over him and whispered in Mickey's ear, his voice calming Mickey's thundering heart when it should be making it weep in terror. That wasn't Luke's voice so who the hell was he trying imitate to fuck with Mickey's trust this time? Not like he hadn't done it before to get Mickey, in a beaten daze, to cooperate thinking it was someone he trusted. “Mickey? You're all right Mick, I've got you. Mickey, you're safe with me, I'm not hurting you, just...Mickey! Wake up, fuck, Mickey please!”

“You motherfuckin' _liar_!” Mickey roared, forcing himself up with all that he had left in him, landing a hard punch to Luke's ribs. His whitening vision cleared as he was freed, gulping air like water, and Mickey came to a dawning, sickening realisation that he had been stuck in a night terror; the pressure of Luke had been his quilts and the fear of him and he had known Luke's voice in his ear had been too kind, too worried, too sweet and loving and _oh shit_. “Ian! Fuck, Ian?”

“M'here, d-down here moo,” came that sweet voice, strained though, and from down the bottom end of the bed. Ian surfaced with a wince and looked harassed; his face was wet and flushed, maybe crying in his fit of panic, his hair was sticking up all over the place and his body language exhausted from what Mickey could see of his bare, slumped shoulders. What time was it? “Hey,” Ian said softly, “You OK?”

Mickey pinched his nose though he stared through his fingers to keep his gaze fixed on Ian. Ian, not Luke. Ian. “How long was I uh, in that?”

Ian pushed up and Mickey frowned at him holding his side, “A while. Been trying to wake you up for a good five, ten minutes maybe? You yelled and... well, I'm sure you know what you do when you have a terror. My brother had some when he was little but they weren't half as fuckin' terrifying as that was. Jesus, Mick, I couldn't help you or anything, you were deaf to me, real deep in there and... so fucking worried, moo,” he finished in a tiny voice, eyes shimmering in the low light from the bathroom. Mickey glanced over at the jarred door and Ian waved his fingers at his own chest weakly, _that was me._

“I should have said I get 'em but not had one in a while so, uh, thought I was safe. The drink must've kept the attack down and sent it in my fuckin' dreams. Shit Ian, I am _so_ damn sorry,” Mickey sighed heavily and looked down at his feet sticking up under the quilt. Ian's hand snaked over them and shook his left foot to get Mickey's attention. “I hit you, didn't I?”

“Yeah,” Ian chuckled, rubbing his side a little, “You have a mean hook, mister. Hey, it was my own fault for getting too close. I had no choice though, really, couldn't fuckin' wake you up moo, and if I'd have touched you, it'd be more than one swipe. Don't feel shitty, please? You have no control over _that_ just like Carl never did and I have no control over my feet if I walk on a rink without skates.” The dork had just been scared shitless and smacked and yet he was trying to make light of everything. Honestly, this guy.

“But I fuckin' _hit you_ , man. Never wanted to hit you, leavin' those kinda hellish marks on your body. Never. Jesus, Ian, I hit you!” Mickey moaned, his head aching and his chest just as bad. He took a deep breath and tried to push it out but it caught. “No, _no_ , Ian, it's- _Ian_ ,” he was trying to breathe, _really trying_ but now his body was waking up, so too did his panic. Fretting over taking at swing at Ian didn't help either. All he could feel was Luke's hands around his neck, that closing, deadly pressure and Ian's saddened face when he'd been skating in the dark. Hands sweating, Mickey began clawing at his neck and jaw to _feel_ , to ground himself and stop his mind from going kaput.

“OK, Mickey, don't force it, just... easy. In, hmm?” Ian moved into his line of sight so quickly that Mickey couldn't do anything but stare at him, fingers stopping with his attention snagged, watching Ian take in a deep breath, expanding his chest with exaggeration and making his ribs stick out but the motion was what Mickey needed to focus on. In. Breathe in. As soon as he took the same breath, Ian let it out, pouting and nodding steadily, “That's it. You're safe, here, with me. Copy me, and you'll see, you'll clear away your imagination!” Ian grinned as he sang it out in his exhale, and again on the next, making up words but keeping the tune so perfect that Mickey was captured. His hands had moved without him knowing, seeking out Ian's; dazed as he was by Ian on his knees in front of him in just his boxer briefs, sleep tousled and soft, he hadn't given the command to move them. Ian smiled around his syllables and his eyes were shiny as they held Mickey's wide ones, singing and nodding with every breath Mickey took, praising him with light squeezes to his fingers and palms where they were encased in his own larger hands, smooth and warm and safe. Only when Ian started to hum lightly did Mickey notice his breathing had slowed to a regular pace and his heart wasn't in his throat any more.

“You're... Ian,” Mickey said dumbly, staring at Ian like he hadn't ever seen him before in his life; this wonderful, sleep soft and bed messed creature was calming him down after having the freak out of his life over Mickey's night terror, after their spat. Apart from his explanation of events, Ian hadn't really hinted at needing any kind of reassurance or comfort, hadn't asked for it or anything. _I'll be strong for you_. “I frightened you, huh?”

“Mmheh, lil' bit,” Ian winked, shifting forward a little, “Forget about it though, right? You're OK and that's what makes me OK. Just a nightmare, just a wobble, nothing to go getting all apologetic over 'cause they're not things you have control over. I've taken worse from frozen water, moo.”

“Nerd! Jesus Christ,” Mickey sighed like Ian's dorkiness was a real, physical pain to bare and when the skater stuck out his tongue like Mickey had hoped he would in light spite, Mickey ducked up and closed his lips around it, kissing comfort into Ian rather than trying to say something he'd only mess up with his head as blitzed as it was. Mickey lost himself in pressing his forehead to the hollow of Ian's throat, listening to him breathe while Ian's fingers danced a tapping rhythm up and down Mickey's back.

“Would suggest breakfast but as I was getting up to use the bathroom, I checked my phone and Lana has called me like, a billion times, so I have to go,” Ian said as they dressed, dropping his tracksuit bottoms in favour of wandering over to Mickey as he bent to pull on a sock. He'd only managed to get on a clean pair of boxer briefs and his US polo shirt for practise, much to Ian's delight. He'd checked his phone and seen the text from Thompson and his gut had rolled. Canada.

“Ah, duty calls. Hey, why though, if you've done all your even- Jesus, _fucking_ , can you not?!” Mickey blurted, breathing hard as Ian had scared the shit out of him, sneaking over, using his stealth setting to creep up on Mickey and grab handfuls of his ass, squeezing the fleshy lumps in his hands with a deep groan into Mickey's nape.

“Don't wear tightie whities then. Hmm I can't control my hands when my eyes see such temptation. God, your ass,” Ian moaned, pulling his chin away as his hands squeezed and snaked over Mickey's hips and down the outside of his thighs, pressing his chest against Mickey's back, his appreciative groan rumbling down Mickey's spine. “Your thighs, Mick. Fuck, your _body_ , Jesus _Mickey_.”

Mickey shivered and pressed back despite trying to control himself, eyes slipping closed as Ian pressed hot, lip-dragging kisses down the tight muscle of Mickey's neck, “Can you please refrain from sayin' my name like that when you have to go and leave me?”

“Hmm, trust me, I don't want to. Would rather spend the day kissing you, making you smile, smashing you with snow balls,” Ian whispered, kissing Mickey's shoulder hard before pulling back, taking his wandering hands with him. Goddamnit. Mickey turned and glanced, watching Ian yank on his tracksuit, hopping on his tip toes to get the waistband up over his thighs. God, those legs. Mickey made a mental check list of things to do to Ian and, after blow him so good the guy couldn't stand, worship his body was next.

“See ya later?” Mickey soft of asked, more wondered in a gesture of goodbye, walking Ian to the door. Ian smiled and pressed himself close, cupping Mickey's jaw in his soft hands, planting kiss after kiss to his mouth until Mickey was grinning and trying so very hard not to make it deeper, hands curling in Ian's jacket over his biceps

“I hope so. Lana wants me for something so I don't know how my time is gonna be spread, but I will make sure I see you, even if it's just for five minutes, OK?” Ian assured, adding another kiss to seal the deal, “You gonna be all right after...?”

Mickey gave a solid nod of his head and waved it off, opening his door, closing it to steal a hot kiss and then reopened it reluctantly. “Yeah, not like it's anything new. Used to it.”

Ian's face looked like his heart had just shattered, dropping his bag so he could wrap himself around Mickey, “Wish you weren't. Hey, see you later, yeah?” another kiss, this time to Mickey's hair and Ian was jogging off down the hall to the stairwell with his bag smacking against his ass and leg. Just as Mickey ducked back in to gather his kit and pocket his phone, it chimed with a text.

 

From: Bart 8:52am

I got a breakfast roll with your name on it. Lobby.

 

Mickey smiled and made his way downstairs, scanning all over the place just in case Ian happened to be in the building still but, as he saw the gathering that was half of his team, no such luck.

“Hand it over,” Mickey put his hand out when he came to stand before Bart, snapping his fingers to hurry the guy up when he took his sweet time fishing in a paper bag. “Come on man, you said food, my gut is getting aggressive.”

“Jesus, someone work up your appetite?” Bart winked and Mickey slugged him one, snatching the roll from his hands.

“You keep your wonderings to your damn self, 'sky,” Mickey grumbled, tucking into the food. It was nice, hit the spot and would have been more pleasant had he not wolfed it down so fast it stuck in the base of his throat. “It's gone down like a brick, shit,” he wheezed, taking the bottle of water Bart produced with a grin. Mickey flipped him off while guzzling it.

“Wonder if Ian knows you can deepthroat Evian?”

“Fuck!” Mickey choked and swung hard, missing Bart's chunky arm by a hair. “Kickin' your ass in practise, fuckin' see if I don't!” Mickey swung again and Bart jumped right out the way, laughing his white teeth all the way across the area.

“Leave him alone, Bart,” Milo frowned and Mickey gave him a look that said _thank you_. Bart scoffed and made to run.

“Yes, _mom_.”

“Little fuck,” Milo hissed and jumped the sofa, tearing down the hall after Bart and his cheeky ass. Mickey shook his head - grown men, yeah, _sure_.

“Hey, Mick!” Louie called, waving as he came out of the elevator with Jake in tow. Mickey narrowed his eyes and scanned them both for any kind of sign that might indicate their situation better. All he could come up with was friends, still, so he didn't bother trying to push them for information. Not that he wanted to know, really, but he did, because it was Louie and Jake.

“Mornin' fuckface,” Jake saluted Mickey and got a smack in the chest, a scowl and curse from Louie for it.

“Oh, what, you lookin' in your pocket mirror again, princess?” Mickey said sweetly and chuckled at Louie's scandalised face, “Oh, c'mon, Lou, you know he carries one!”

“I forgot! Haha, Lynn has a pocket mirror!” Louie crowed, moving out of reach when he noticed the paper bag, rifling through it.

“Ladies!” Thompson roared from somewhere near the front desk, “Nice to see you all. Now, we got a lot to do today, mostly pumping our blood up, but than that's what we do best. I know it's earlier than I said, but about half an hour, but seeing as most of you are here and the rest are down at the sports hall, setting up, I reckon we should get a-movin'. Canada ain't gonna kick its own ass!”

 

 

 

“Run for fuck sake, Mickey, _run_!” Louie yelled from the side lines. Dodge-ball. Mickey fucking hated dodge-ball and yet, he was the best dodger going. He was the last one standing, as it were, on his half of the team and the rest, well, they were all grinning evilly at him, loaded with balls and just waiting for him to rocket down the sports hall to try and escape un-hit. If he managed it, his side of the team were having pizza. If he didn't, he was about to get the biggest pantsing of his life and probably crushed under a pile of peeved team mates. A lot at stake.

“Fuckin' shut it, man, this shit's terrifyin'!” Mickey squeaked, sweating and eyeing every ball with serious distrust. This was either going to be the most euphoric run of his life or the most painful.

“On three!” Thompson leant forward and put his meaty hand out, three fingers with a whistle in his mouth. He shook them, and in slow motion to Mickey, blowing the whistle hard when they were all gone. Mickey pushed off the wall and ran for his life, leaping and skidding, ducking and swearing like it was all he was made to do. One ball flew incredibly close to his face and he cursed out who-the-fuck-ever had tried that because _not the face, assholes_!

“Run, Forrest!”

“Fuck _off_ , Shaun!” Mickey yelled, leaping into the air to avoid a cluster headed for his shins. Thompson had at least allowed them to wear their sports cups. The end line was in sight and Mickey honestly only wanted to cross it to avoid the flying rubber rounds of certain agony. Jumping again, Mickey dived and slid over the line with a yell of triumph on his belly. “ _Mother_ fucker!” he shouted, rolling quickly to see who looked shameful enough to him to suggest they had just hit his ass, hard. Jake was giggling as Mickey's eyes landed on him but Louie, right next to him, looked horrified, “You? Seriously?”

“Mickey, I didn't mean- it rebounded! It... shit, Mick, I swear to God it wasn't intentional. Mickey, no, dude, fuckin' _no_!” Louie screeched as Mickey hauled himself up and charged at him, taking him down around the waist before sitting on his calves, tearing his shorts down even though Louie wriggled and slapped at his hands. Was that a _bite_ mark on his ass?

“Suck it up, bitch, you hit me with a fuckin' basketball!” Mickey landed a hard smack to each cheek and got up, his team guffawing while Louie yanked his shorts back up and flipped Mickey the bird. “You are on _my_ team, asshole,” Mickey scowled, laughing when Louie cursed him out and took a lunge.

“No pizza for Louisiana!” Bart shouted.

Seth chortled, “What the hell were you tryin' to do exactly?”

Louie frowned and kicked the floor, “I just... a ball rolled up to me and I picked it up. It distracted my train of thought! Fuck you guys!”

“Put your pout away 'fore I step up and slap you,” Mickey cuffed Louie's arm and smiled, “If I get a bruise, you're explainin' it to Ian.”

“Right,” Thompson snorted, moving into the middle of his guys, “Time for reps. Brooker, Hollander, Baker, set up the benches. Those of you who smoke and fancy freezing to death in your shorts, go take five. Rest of you, go molest Fael, he's got the drinks box. I'll get the balls back in their bags – don't even think of saying something rude!” Joe pointed straight at Shaun who feigned shock. Mickey rolled his eyes and ducked out of the hall and zipped up his jacket as he made his way to the shelter to hit the outdoor heaters, lighting his cigarette quickly. The cold latched on to his bare legs straight away, no matter how much he put them in the red haze of the heaters. Harley perched on a table top, Martin stood near by and David leaned against a railing that seemed to just be, not going anywhere, not coming from anywhere, just one piece for David's big frame.

“How you doin', kid?” David asked and Mickey eyed him as he usually did, flicking his ash into a near by pot.

“Good. Why?”

David shrugged and looked down at his feet like he had something stuck on the bottom, “Coach gave us a little run down this morning. Told us what happened.” Harley nodded and Martin gave a small smile as Greg came out. “You smoke?” David wondered, frowning hard to which Greg shook his head.

“Nah, brought you ugly fuckers some bottles,” he said, placing four blue bottles on the table. “You good Kovich?” he turned to Mickey and tipped his head, analysing.

Noticing that each guy was looking at him for some sort of answer, Mickey sighed and shifted uncomfortably, “Look, I'm all right. No lasting damage, just, a mind fuck if anything. Don't gotta worry.”

“Heard a uh, freight liner took the bastard down. That right?” Rogers asked and Mickey hummed, drawing on his cigarette. “Same dude who smashed the fuck outta you, right?”

“Yup,” Mickey exhaled, “Took him clean off his feet. He's decent.”

“And then somebody went and smacked him in the mouth, didn't he?” David asked and Martin pointed at him _ah, that's right_.

“What the hell is this, interrogation hour?” Mickey sighed, pinching his nose, “Yes. Luke took a beatin', and now he's off to the pit he crawled out of.”

“Bud, we're just wondering who we gotta thank is all. Did what we've all been foamin' at the mouth to do for months,” Harley said and Rogers, Fulham and Kenn all nodded, agreeing with murmurs while Mickey glanced about them, eyebrows sneaking up his forehead.

“You know we got your back, right?” Greg said and Mickey gave a little nod, not really knowing what he should say. “So, we got a British tank and a fire haired skater to track down-”

“Whoa, no,” Mickey jumped in, “You don't need to do that.” Not Ian.

“Uh, no choice,” David said as each other them stood, stubbing out their cigarettes. “Don't worry, Ian's thank you will be for _you_ to deliver, we'll just make sure he gets it.”

Two hours and five slams into the floor later, Mickey was cursing and limping. He'd bashed his shin against a bench three times and even crash mats did nothing to help the winding he got when he fell, thoroughly done with it all. Thompson had them dodge, jump, chase each other down, chase down a little black ball while on roller skates, then back on the bench reps. Mickey wanted a hot bath and a year of sleep if he was honest, his mood souring and his head aching. He understood the hard drilling they were getting, but honestly, Canada could go suck it for all Mickey cared. They would leave with a medal regardless. But as the entire team had been informed of Mickey's run in with Lucifer, the fight with Canada was now personal even though the team loathed Luke just as much as the US team.

“Yo, Milkovich,” Greg collared Mickey as he hobbled to the wall and slid down it. “You need an ice pack?”

“Yesterday,” Mickey breathed, tugging off his shin guards, rubbing the thin scar and red marks furiously. Greg produced a wrap around pack and strapped it while Mickey drank down half a bottle of water.

“Hey, we did some diggin' and we found out a lil' somethin',” Greg said absently as he made sure the ice was on the abused part of Mickey's bone and not the back, “Found out that Svetlana had the boys use the public rink today because the arenas were in use and she felt like, I dunno, pity? Been haulin' them around for days so I guess she wanted to cut them some sort of slack. Anyway! Thing is, Ian is down there and it's closed to the public.”

Mickey eyed him, still panting and tired but ever so slightly wary now, “What you gettin' at Fulham?”

“So, we, well, Jake and Milo found out that Ian's in there alone for like, the next half an hour. We can distract the lady and her disciples for like, ten extra, so you can go give him a personal thanks from us. However you wish to do it, obviously, but we know that seeing you unexpectedly will make him smile and that's good enough really,” Greg smiled and crouched next to Mickey, pointing at his shin, “How long d'you reckon you'll need that on for? Hit the old injury huh?”

Mickey frowned and thought it over for a second or two, “Ten should do it.”

“Done,” Greg said and got up, moving off towards Thompson where he engaged him in a conversation that required a lot of hand waving and agitated face pulling. Joe didn't look best pleased, but rather than angry or annoyed, he looked more concerned when he glanced over at Mickey who was trying to look like he wasn't watching them, pressing the compress down a little harder to take the ache away. Greg wandered back over as Louie jogged towards Mickey from the other side of the hall, unaware that Jake was watching him. Mickey was going to question him at some point. That wasn't a friendly set of eyes watching Louie.

“Bashed your leg up again?” Louie asked, fishing out a fresh bottle of water and looking like he was going to dump it all over himself, deciding to drink it instead.

“Just aches,” Mickey shrugged, Louie knowing it gave him shit whenever he cracked it too hard.

“Coach reckons you should, uh, go back to your room. Wants you to soak your leg so it's good for tomorrow. He's sending the physio to your room, probably be around six he said so... you're off the clock,” Greg smiled and Louie frowned, looking between the two then, lightning fast, looked over his shoulder at Jake and Milo and then back to Mickey with a broad smirk.

“Best go 'rest' then, bro,” he snorted, capping his water with a wink and dutifully ignoring the narrowing of Mickey's eyes. Did everyone fucking know except their Coach? Dangerous games to play, but, as he was free to go say thank you to an unknowing Ian, Mickey didn't question it and made a massive show out of limping to the changing rooms. He changed into his tracksuit and deigned to keep the ice pack on, leaving his kit bag with Louie's next to the blond's locker with a packet of Pop Rocks tucked into Louie's jacket pocket as a bribe. He was sucker for blue raspberry so it was only in case of emergency that Mickey had sought some out and bought half a box worth at the airport while Louie had been throwing his ass up in the bathroom.

 

 

Mickey was let into the ice rink without question, the guard even opening the door as he approached, looking in the opposite direction as if to say if _I didn't see you, you weren't here_. What the hell had his team pulled? Padding down the carpeted hall in the quiet hum of the air units, Mickey wasn't sure he really wanted to find out. He had about fifteen minutes to do this, maybe twenty-five if the guys pulled some more magic out of their asses, so he needed to clear his mind and... Jesus Christ. _Ian_.

Unlike previously, the rink had music playing out loud and Ian was moving around so gracefully, completely lost in what he was doing so Mickey made doubly sure the sound dampening doors didn't clang shut and make him fall or crash. Mickey would never be able to erase the memory of Ian dancing, but still, he always seemed to forget just how captivating he was to witness and it was like the first time, all over again, every single time. The music vaguely struck a chord in Mickey's memory bank and the longer he watched Ian glide and spin to it like some kind of a ballet King with blades on his soles, the less he thought, seeing it play out rather than listening. Ian's rolling arms moved to the sound of heavy violins and his head swung to cellos, twirling with a foot hooked up backwards, head lolling and hands waving delicately. Mickey was rooted to the spot, couldn't move, wouldn't move until Ian stopped because there was no way he was going to stop this. It was both relaxing and soul destroying, this show he was putting on for no one, and it hurt Mickey that nobody was seeing this grace and destruction pulsating out of one serene and fluent man. But at the same time, he was selfishly pleased that nobody could see this, because it seemed personal, somehow, full of passion and love and agony. Mickey, much as he was enjoying the ache it gave him in his chest and the tingling pleasure that came from watching, he felt strangely like he shouldn't watch either. Like this was Ian, open and raw, even though he seemed to be doing a routine, leaping into a Lutz and coming out clean and smooth, rocking from side to side as he flew over the ice. All too soon, it was over and the music faded out as Ian skated out of his dream world and shook his neck and arms, then his legs one at a time, looping idly, not really paying attention to anything but what he was upon. It was like poetry in motion, what Mickey had just seen, and once again, he found himself stumped by just how good Ian was at his sport without showing it off for all to see. To look at him, tall and lean, skating around like he didn't know what to do, it would be a hard notion to grasp if you hadn't seen him perform. Mickey was in awe, beaming to himself while he watched just a moment longer until he was sure Ian wouldn't die of embarrassment and, to announce himself, he opened the door and clanged it, thumping his way down the gangway that circled down to the rink side and gates.

“Mickey!” Ian cheered, spinning on wide spread legs, arms out like he was praising the sky.

“Ian!” Mickey mimicked back, watching the giant dork glide around, following Mickey on the other side of the glass like a seal at the aquarium. “Havin' fun are you?” Mickey chuckled as Ian skated alongside him, trying to make like he was walking down some stairs and failing so bad, skidding and slipping with a laugh.

“Routine stuff for a dancing thing for the closing ceremony. It's always fun for me,” Ian hummed as Mickey got to a gate and found Ian unlocking it to come out. “Bring your skates?” Ian asked, standing way too tall over Mickey again. A pinch of pain hit him in the stomach as he remembered the night previous with Ian looming over him in the gloomy snow, looking broken and hopeful all at once. Fucking Gallagher. Mickey shook his head and reached up to smooth his hand down the back and side of Ian's neck.

“I've come to say thank you, from my team, for, uh, what you did,” Mickey said awkwardly, not liking it one bit because he had thrown a complete fit over the incident, so to come and thank the guy now wasn't sitting with him at all. But, to by pass it and follow through on the thanks, Mickey smiled sweetly and tugged Ian's curious smile to his, kissing him softly. “I have about ten minutes, maybe twenty if I'm lucky. You got Lana comin' and I shouldn't be here, really, it's all down to the guys. Their thank you is more than likely to do with you defending me, not how you did it,” Mickey said, kissing him again, harder this time. It was _so_ the way he did it, but still. “A sweet gift really, givin' us a bit of time together now that it's getting' so busy for us. So, as I have been given choice over the nicety, I think it's time I re-paid you in kind, and with interest,” Mickey winked and stole another, deeper kiss, one that had Ian stumbling to get closer while avoiding Mickey's Nike's with his bladed feet, hands curling around Mickey's jaw and neck to hum and lick into his mouth slowly.

Breaking away, Ian gave a lazy smile, his doe eyes bright and consuming, “Thank you kisses are the best. I'll take a few thousand, please?”

“Wasn't just gonna kiss you, twinkle toes,” Mickey whispered, snatching him back again to kiss behind his ear, holding tight to Ian's hip and neck, “I was gonna _blow_ you. You know, like you did to me? Have you weak in the knees and unable to form a thought passed my name, unable to speak, only produce the hottest fuckin' noises you keep locked away for my ears.”

Ian shook a little and swallowed audibly, “Fucking hell, Mick.”

“But,” Mickey sighed and pulled away, mock sadness all over his face, shrugging, thumbing Ian's ridiculously soft bottom lip in thought, “If you just want kisses-”

“Didn't say 'just kisses'. Let me just get my skates off, yeah?” Ian's face was flushing pink, mostly over his nose and his eyes seemed to sparkly dangerously, a threat of lust glazing them for Mickey's sight alone. The lanky dork hobbled to the nearest seat, much to Mickey's amusement – it was always going to be funny to see a full grown man wobble on ice skates – and sat with a thump, tearing at his laces and clasps with fidgety fingers. He had the tightest pair of tracksuit bottoms on, Mickey was sure of it, another one of his many 'painted on' items, so tight that Mickey briefly wondered if they'd split if Ian bent to far. They were shiny so most likely some form of spandex or lycra but he hit was images of just how far Ian _could_ bend. Jesus. He was getting a little hot under the collar of his polo shirt.

“You know,” Mickey snapped out his daze and moved closer, “It's deserted in here.”

“Cameras?” Ian mumbled, still furiously picking at his laces, whining when the right set knotted. Mickey looked up and around and scowled at the domes fitted to the roof. Damn. “There's none in the shower room. Breach of privacy and all that- fuck, I swear to God!”

Mickey snorted and bent to undo the laces for his giant ginger dork, humming when he felt hands card through his hair, kisses land on his crown. He got the lace undone in no time and made to stand back up, only to have the underside of his chin stroked to get his attention, “Yah?”

“Seriously, you know what I'm creepin' for,” Ian's voice was light and lilted and Mickey knew he'd be greeted by a soft, warm smile, kissing it away and bracing his hands on the seats either side of Ian's waist. Damn cameras. Ian pushed up to stand, never pulling his mouth from Mickey's, coiling himself around Mickey, heating him further and filling every one of his senses.

“Should go find this shower room,” Mickey grunted, Ian nipping his jaw hinge and lacing their fingers together, smiling cheekily before yanking Mickey along with him, pulling him this way and that around seats and bollards until they were going down a low ceilinged corridor, further from civilization. As soon as the door was pushed open, Mickey had Ian's in his hair while his own tore at the rope ties holding the painted on bottoms up on defined hipbones and smooth, toned skin that Mickey wanted to kiss and bite. Getting the bow undone, Ian nudged Mickey's head up and kissed him hurriedly, long licks of his tongue and hard sucks, moving them until Ian's back hit a wall and Mickey gave him one linger kiss before dropping to his knees, shifting so he wasn't in danger of damaging the ice pack on his leg. It ached still, the bone, but it wasn't anything compared to the heavy heat gathering in his boxer briefs.

“Sure you wanna do this?” Ian breathed, head back and face to the roof as Mickey glanced up, his hands busy tugging stupidly clingy material down Ian's strained legs.

“Holy... is that a _jockstrap_?” Mickey was grinning, unable to stop himself; yes, that was, indeed, a black jockstrap. Oh, well then. Mickey ran his hands from where they had circled Ian's ankles to where he'd shoved the bottoms down, up Ian's calves and the insides of his thighs, leaning to kiss the inside of the left one. “Turn around quick, I wanna see your ass in this,” Mickey shuffled and sat back on his heels as Ian gave a little chuckle and hiked up his hems, turning to face the wall as best he could considering his legs were tangled.

“Like?”

Mickey's was reaching for the smooth flesh of Ian's backside before he could form a coherent thought; dear God. The straps were shaping and thick and black against pale, peach tinged skin and he tipped forward, biting the top curve of Ian's ass gently. “ _Fuck_ , you gotta let me fuck you in this one day, please?” Mickey groaned, nuzzling the top strap like it was the hand of a God. Ian's body jumped when he laughed lightly, turning back around, the pouch now directly under Mickey's nose.

“If you let me fuck you in one. I know you got a few. What sportsman who has to wear skin tight things doesn't own at least one?” Ian lamented, hissing when Mickey attached his mouth to his cock through the thin fabric, blowing hot air as he mouthed and rolled his eyes shut.

“I got four,” Mickey said, running his hands up Ian's legs again, pulling the jockstrap down, “Red, black, blue and fuckin' banana yellow. Don't ask.” Ian's dick was half mast but that didn't phase Mickey, taking it in hand to stroke, kissing along Ian's thigh line to his hip, shuffling closer to get his teeth into play, nipping and sucking.

“Gotta s-see it to believe it, _damn_ ,” Ian huffed, a soft thud indicating his head tipping back, hands tightening in the material he'd bunched up. Mickey gave a noise of agreement, far too interested in warm skin under his lips as he dragged them along the indent from the elastic band to Ian's other hip, suckling and rolling his tongue while the shaft in his hand swelled further. A sight for sore eyes indeed, Ian panting a little, his belly bared to the room, tight and pale and jet-lined with the blue of his veins, his cock in Mickey's hand, full and thick. Mickey set to work, licking it slippery as he curled his fingers around Ian's hips, thumbs digging into the lines, and took him in his mouth, humming at the weight and taste and sheer heat on his tongue.

Ian thumped his head again, puffing breaths quickly as he shifted, his top half rocking a little with whatever it was. Mickey had his eyes closed, bobbing his head a little, and when he pulled off to run the flat of his tongue around the soft head, he glanced up and chuckled just a bit. Ian had rolled his shirt up and tucked the hem down through the collar, kind of like a giant bra, his jacket corners stuff in too. Ian was looking down at him, a hint of amusement there but with his face so darkened by arousal and want, Mickey was only able to see it in the glint of his eyes. Ian licked his lips and groaned lowly, hands now free to inch towards Mickey's head.

“Mind if I?” he barely whispered it but Mickey knew, gave a tiny nod whilst taking him into his mouth again, his eyes drooping and rolling. God _damn_ , he needed to do this more often because not only did it set him alight everywhere, made his own cock throb erratically in his pants, but Ian's face was insane. Flushed, yes, but his eyes were clear despite being darkened by lust, the skin over his cheekbones tinged and glowy, his lips red and tempting. He looked like hunger personified and Mickey wanted him to eat, eat, _eat_. Mickey upped his game and started kissing and sucking the crease of Ian's groin, down to his balls where he sucked and teased, inhaling sharply through his nose while using his hand to jerk Ian hard.

“Kinda want the sex now,” Mickey groaned, sliding the cock back into his mouth and bobbing with the twist and pull of his hand and wrist.

Ian's moaned and shifted his legs a bit, “Still an option.”

“Nah,” Mickey tugged harder and ran his tongue over his own fingers, “Not enough time. So fuckin' hard, Christ.”

“You. 'Cause of you!” Ian yelped as Mickey let go and swallowed him down, almost completely.

Mickey pulled back and jerked him some more, looking up with a coy grin, “Didn't mean you.” He used his other hand to free himself, awkward on his knees, but he managed it and took his own cock in hand as he sucked Ian harder, grunting and moaning because fuck, he was turned on like the sun and burning as hot. Ian whimpered and his knees went a touch, his hands tight in Mickey's hair, carding and scratching and twisting.

“Jesus, fuck, _Mickey_ ,” Ian really needed to stop with that name-moaning of his; Mickey squeezed his dick and stopped bobbing, holding the head of Ian's in his mouth behind his puffy lips, looking up. Ian was still watching, mouth hanging open, eyes attentive and curious. Mickey held still and let his lips go lax, raising an eyebrow in question. “Sure?”

“S'ri'us?” Mickey managed around the mouthful stretching his jaw, rolling his eyes when Ian nodded, _yeah, OK_ , and began to thrust forward gently, gauging what Mickey could take and couldn't, how hard or fast. Mickey used his free hand to hold on to Ian's thigh, ready to squeeze if he needed a break, but he was certain he wouldn't and planned on going until his mouth was flooded and Ian was dying on the floor from a pleasurable overload. Ian's fingers crept all over Mickey's head, one set eventually staying put where they cupped his jaw, gentle and considerate while Ian took his thrills.

“Damn,” he hissed, rocking quicker while Mickey jerked himself faster, his skin tingling and hot. Ian moaned again and again, deep and light and pained, half a laugh at points, swearing and rolling Mickey's name out like it was sin. “How much can you take down, moo?”

Mickey looked up and pulled away when Ian stopped to free up his mouth, “Probably manage it all, once or twice.”

Ian dropped and a curse tore from his throat, licking his way into Mickey's mouth for a moment before he stood up again, “Your lips are fuckin' fantastic, did you know that?

“So you like to say,” Mickey sassed, thumbing his own cock head, nuzzling Ian's crease again, the heady scent of his arousal shattering Mickey's tiny bit of resolve. He pulled back and opened his mouth, tugging harder at his own dick as his mouth filled again, relaxing into the grip around the back of his skull, relying on Ian to take care of him while he took care in kind. Mickey let go of himself and curled his hands around Ian's ass, squeezing so Ian stopped thrusting, giving back control while he tried to catch his breath a bit. It didn't work, as Mickey bobbed once, twice and on the third, steadily mouthed Ian down until his nose was buried in fire red hair and his airway cut off for all of five seconds.

“Holy fuck!” Ian whimpered, rolling his head against the wall, hands squeezing Mickey's nape and shoulders, the guy barely able to keep his twitching and fidgeting to a minimum as Mickey backed off and licked from balls to tip, bobbing his head again. He felt like the devil, watching Ian look like he was about to collapse from exhaustion, the tinge from his cheeks down his neck and across his collar, eyes so heavy they may as well be closed. The feeling of Ian's cock thoroughly filling his mouth had sent spearing heat throughout Mickey's system, his own arousal impossibly high. He could feel his cock bobbing on its own from his raging pulse and all he wanted was release from the pressure, and judging from Ian's babbling and grabbing fingers, his whines and curses, moans and harsh, chest pumping breathing, he was so very close himself.

“Ah, M... Mick,” Ian's voice was a high pitch, so much so that it broke a few times. Mickey kept sucking, enjoying the taste and the act itself, keying himself and Ian up to explosive levels, so he went for his second deep throat and held, barely managing a swallow around the girth of Ian. “Sshhh-” Ian's hands spasmed where they clung to Mickey in his hair and the sharp pain had Mickey groan as he pulled back, using a hand to stroke fast and hard with his mouth. Ian's body tensed up and then relaxed, his panting loud and broken by noises, and then he tensed again, “Mick. _Oh_ , OK, Mickey, just... fuck, shit, fu-” Ian thumped his head against the wall and Mickey stopped moving his mouth and tightened his lips around the head of Ian's cock, humming with pleasure at the light burst that hit his tongue. He laved at it, tugging a few times with long, tight, slow twists of his wrist and then he sped up. Ian went rigid and Mickey's hair was near ripped from its roots, warmth spilling into his mouth as Ian let out an agonised moan. Jesus fucking hellfire. Mickey milked him until Ian was pulling him off with a whimpered _too much, too much_.

“God fuckin' damn, Gallagher,” Mickey groaned, resting his forehead on the hard muscle of Ian's thigh, jerking himself off. The thigh was removed and replaced by Ian's collar as the guy's shaking legs went from under him, his hand joining Mickey's. _Mission accomplished_.

“Gimme your mouth,” Ian mumbled and Mickey snapped his head up, taking the kisses and giving back as much as he could with how focused he was on wanking himself in the tightness of Ian's hand. Ian moved to his jaw and kissed, breathing unsteady still as he huffed over Mickey's ear and began a trail of scraping teeth and sucks and kisses down the chord of Mickey's throat. It hit him without much warning, a slight twinge in his balls, and Mickey was moaning _oh fucking God_ , to which Ian kissed _yeah?_ coming over his fist and Ian's fingers, maybe his barely-out-of-the-way tracksuit bottoms. Hopefully not. Ian pulled his face up and gave him a wonderfully sweet smile, kissing Mickey calm with slow slides of his lips, little licks from his tongue before trailing them up and over Mickey's cheekbones and brow, down to his jaw where his fingers tapped a light rhythm into his skin.

“Hey,” Ian said after cleaning them up, standing at the sinks next to Mickey as he dried his hands on the toweling, putting an arm out to curl around Mickey's shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest, ducking Mickey's face into his neck while Ian buried his in Mickey's shoulder. “When's the match?”

“On the ice for twelve tomorrow,” Mickey answered softly, trying so hard not to kiss Ian's skin but he was powerless to resist such a temptation, soft and warm as it was and right there.

“I'll be there.”

Mickey chuckled, “Better be.”

“Oh,” Ian said quickly, like he'd forgotten something good, pulling back, “Time I told you as we're going home soon.”

The thought made Mickey's stomach threaten to empty, “What's that?”

“I live in Michigan City,” Ian smiled, “I'm only an hour, or just over an hour rather, from you. You do live in Chicago, right?”

Ian lived in the next State. Literally just across the boarder. Mickey's heart jumped and he could only reply with a hard nod before pushing Ian against the sinks and kissing his happiness into him, hoping that the guy could feel it burning his blood, hoping to send Ian's mind soaring like his own while the redheaded dork giggled and squeezed Mickey tight around the middle. Michigan City, not LA or New York or fucking Florida – he had fleetingly wondered if Ian lived in Canada as that's where Louie had met him, and yeah, they used those rinks too, but still. Nothing indicated Ian lived near where he grew up, especially not his mannerisms and sweet nature, but he did. He hadn't wandered far and Mickey thanked his red, white and blue stars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- That nightmare was not a made up scenario created in dream land, Mickey was reliving one that happened. Bad shit.  
> \- The song he was dancing to is Nothing Else Matters (instrumental) by Apocalyptica. Beautifully painful music.  
> \- ON TO THE FINAL!!!!  
> \- Come see me on
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://youknowyoutried.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> :} I have Louie/Jake and Moo/TT prompts and all sorts in my archive (i will eventually add them to here, when i can work it out, as associated fics, the Brael (yes, that's Louie/Jake lol) ones for you guys' viewing pleasure ;}
> 
>  
> 
> and then home *runs*


	18. Final Match: USA vs Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the final match in men's ice hockey - USA versus the reigning title holders, Canada. It's a rivalry that goes back years and one that burns hard and hot, a fight of pride and valor, and war that is not easily won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know, it's been a while, right? So sorry, i had life, and the big bang to complete which IT IS! hurray! so, that means, i have more time to work on this. This chapter is very hockey centered, it is near 13 pages of pure in-game action and very little outside of it. I hope you all manage to feel like you're there, like i felt writing it, and i hope it's not too disappointing in relation to there being very little of anything else. Now it's done, it gives me more leeway with the next one, as hockey will be on the back burning now, so it lets up for more... other things lol i am sleepy, it's 3am.  
> WARNING: game violence and blood.

 

Usually buzzing with some sort of anticipation, some kind of _let's rail on these babies_ feeling, Mickey found he had none of that; he felt sick with terror. It wasn't that this was a final match that would bag a medal and show the USA that they'd put the right kind of faith in their sportsmen, no, it was because of the team he was about to face. A team he knew well enough from having played against them in various places in different teams. A few knew him better from his _thing_ with Luke as they had been the bastard's team mates. OK, so he knew they all loathed the guy as much as any single one of his own team, but it didn't make the whole ordeal any less frightening because Mickey felt like the guy was going to appear on the rink and have at him within the rules of defence and offence. He wasn't though, he was shipping out as far as Mickey knew but that didn't stop him from feeling like his every nightmare was about to come alive and take him apart slowly. It was the _Canada_ and the colours and the maple leaf hanging around the rink, the supporters and the guys themselves looking as formidable as ever. So much for having fond memories of maple leaves; if Louie asked him now, he'd pick the Cherokee in a snap.

“You OK there, Mickey?” Jake asked quietly, standing just behind him while Mickey anxiously peered through the glass of the doors keeping them tucked out of sight of the audience and officials.

Mickey blew out shakily and shrugged, “Yeah, sure.”

“Careful, your shorts are smoking,” Jake said and it wasn't with mirth or tease, but with concern and worry and Mickey sagged and turned to him.

“Don't tell Louie or anyone else. Don't want eyes on me thinkin' shit's gonna go down and I can't handle myself, OK? Eyes on the prize,” Mickey bit his lip and was glad he could hide behind his helmet guard but, try as he might to disguise the fear, Jake obviously saw straight through him, clicking his tongue and sighing heavily before pulling Mickey close, knocking their helmets together.

“I got your back. Won't tell nobody if that's what you want,” he said in a hush and then pulled away, slugging Mickey hard on the arm, trying to get him good through the padding. Mickey gave him a very unimpressed smirk, opening his mouth to lick his teeth. “You look like you're havin' a rough time though? I'm tattling like a child, bet your ass I'm gonna,” Jake warned just as the door to the changing room burst open and out came the rest of their team in a red, white and blue wave of muscle, sticks tapping the walls and off boots and helmets. Their kit was all shades of blue and their gloves too but their jersey's were that deep, blood red and glaring with white _USA_ 's over their chests and backs and down their sleeves and short legs. Mickey smiled; it was a sight to see.

“Stick OK?” Louie asked as he hobbled over, fiddling with his chin strap. The helmets were blue this time because of Canada and their two-coloured kit. Mickey preferred red helmets, they hid the blood better.

Mickey picked his stick up from where he'd leant it against the wall and chucked it from one hand to the other, pursing his mouth as he looked over the black, white-striped polish, “Feels... _odd_. Got less nicks and scratches which is nice. Kinda don't wanna scuff it up.” He'd broken his stick that morning in practise and he'd _yelled_ when he'd done it, swearing and ragging the broken ends all over the place before he'd thrown the pieces across the rink in his temper. He'd gone to tackle and steal the puck and send it away from the goal but had caught the wood under his knee and twisted to free it up before he hit the ice with his face and the aged thing had snapped clean in two under the pressure. They had two spares each, exact replicas, but as much as it looked the same, felt the same, it wasn't the same.

“Least you didn't break _you_ ,” Louie snorted and clacked their heads together. “You got me, I got you. Proud to be fightin' with you today, bro, love you,” he whispered and Mickey smiled, pushing his guard up mouth it back.

“Ladies,” Thompson cheered as he came down the gangway, “I am proud to be your coach. I say it a lot, I know, but you boys don't really know what it means to me to coach such an intelligent and competent team of rough 'uns. Today is a big day, and whether you manage to prove that Canada isn't the only nation that plays ice hockey like they breathe air, you'll be getting a medal come the end whistle and that, my beautiful boys, is something to be fucking proud of, you hear me?”

“Yes coach!”

Thompson beamed at his team, “So, are we gonna fight with everything we got? Show Canada they don't fuck with the boys from the US of A?” he roared, looking right at Mickey for a second to which the whole team started yelling _too fucking right_ and _we're taking that gold_. It was personal as much as it was their run-of-the-mill rivalry. The Canadian team hated Luke yet, they would play to win and they always went hard, but beating them _would_ be a massive middle finger to the fucker watching on a TV somewhere. _Think you're always gonna be on top? Down you come, asshole._ Besides, it was about time someone else won and Mickey managed to fill himself with enough fire to firmly want to make it happen, for his nation and for himself; they could do this. _He_ could do this and he was going to give it everything he had, serve Canada and hand it to Luke on a silver medal.

“Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!” Seth chanted, deepening his voice and the rest followed, lining up as they were called out, Canada to come out after as they were the reigning team.

“Who are we?” Bart shouted.

“USA!”

“Who _the fuck_ are we?!”

The entire team roared with clacking sticks, “The motherfuckin' USA!” to which Thompson cackled and moved to push the doors open with Bart chortling at his team all riled up. Mickey was tugged up behind Bart and he pushed something into his giant glove, something he couldn't quite see nor did he have the chance to look really, the comm system bellowing:

“ _Please welcome the challenging team for today's men's Olympic Ice Hockey final, The United States of America!_ ”

“Holy shit!” Louie gasped behind Mickey as they trudged out to a deafening bellow of noise, their flag being holstered up amidst fans in supporting team colours. Try as he might to catch sight of his parents, Mandy and Ian in the crowd, Mickey couldn't see any of them, not that he was surprised – the arena looked fit to burst with the amount in there. The last few matches had been busy but as today was the final, every seat had a backside on it. It didn't really help that the Games were closing in three days so anyone who was coming in to visit and watch were probably already here.

“On the ice ladies, we gotta face off to start with,” Thompson called, waving them passed and through the gate like he was launching paratroopers from the ass of a plane. He took each pair of blade guards as they were handed to him and took Milo's arm to slide out with his troops, standing in the middle of the line with Bart and Mickey either side. “No matter what happens,” Joe whispered down to Mickey through the barely open corner of his mouth, “We're a team and we're in it together, you hear, kid? Every one of us has your back. Now, put your band on.”

Mickey gave a nod and didn't trust his voice to speak, doing a double take when his coach didn't look away, “Coach?”

“The band, Mickey, it's in your _hand_ , dumbass,” the guy chuckled and stood straighter as Canada was announced and their doors opened up on the other side of the wall. Mickey unfurled his fingers and found a strip of light blue elasticated fabric with VC embroidered on it. _Vice Captain_.

“Y-you serious?” Mickey's eyes widened and Thompson gave a grunt over the noise of Canada being received, bumping their shoulders lightly.

“Extremely. You're more than capable, Mick,” he rumbled, “'Sides, Bartholomew started a brawl last time so I gotta have someone else I can completely rely on and you've always been the go-to guy. Kinda time you got that, really.”

“I don't know... I won't let you down, Coach,” Mickey swallowed and wrestled the band up his left arm, the opposing arm to the Captain, pinning his jersey sleeve in a weird bunch when he got it where he wanted it, just below his shoulder joint. The black, white-edged letters stood out like a bruise and Mickey found his chest tighten just that little bit more, his back strengthened against the red and white parade lining up in front of his team, Thompson's belief in his capabilities giving him that extra boost of confidence and power.

The four referee's for the match skated close once Canada were staring down the USA with amused smirks and steeling scowls that were matched, if not more furiously so, by their challengers. “Let's keep this game clean, men, if possible. Your rivalry is outstanding and we all know you wish to do whatever it is you can to demobilize and destroy your opponents but, you must do this within the rules or be issued with strict penalties. Let's not fool ourselves, you won't be doing the regular bullying, we all know it, so try and keep yourselves in check, for the sake of your countries, your representation to the world and Games as well as your own well-being. Am I understood?”

“I will endeavour to keep my team in control, Referee,” Bart said clearly and gave a nod to the accented man as well as the Captain of Canada. Mickey felt his skin crawl looking at the kit and blazing red leaf decorating it.

“I will also endeavour to keep my team in control, Referee, although I would like to say something to our challengers if I may?” said Benjamin, looking straight at Mickey. They were always allowed to shit talk each other, get players backs up and ready to fight so it wasn't a surprise that Ben wanted to say something, but to be looking right at Mickey when he asked only had Mickey feel sick.

Team USA all grumbled and dipped to look at Mickey who was staring the Captain down. He gave a nod of approval as it was clear Ben only wished to talk to him and not the entire team, and the Ref conceded, “You may.”

“We don't endorse that kind of behaviour. We don't stand at his back and we certainly don't wish to be painted with the same brush you, and us to be honest, have painted him with. If we could have known what he was going to do when he got here, which we honestly thought he wouldn't, but then we all know what kind of liar he is and he is a lying _marvel_ , we would have disallowed his visit and told him to go fuck himself. We are _so_ fucking sorry, Mickey,” Ben dipped forward to whisper that last bit, looking like he'd done the worst thing he'd ever managed to do in his life and Mickey had to bite his lip to stop it from shaking with how earnest and honest Ben was. “Accept our meager apology and leave what he has done outside. He is _nothing_ to do with us, he has no place in hockey and his name is dirt. This fight is for our nations and the only personal edge should be our regular rivalry. You _know_ me, Mickey, I'm not talking shit here. Don't let that bastard taint this. Do we have an agreement?”

It was extremely obvious that the Canadian team had understood that Luke's behaviour would piss off the entire US team and were expecting some kind of rebuke for it and Mickey, much as he had wanted to kick their asses because he couldn't kick Luke's, understood that it was very unfair to want to issue that beating. They hadn't done anything wrong. The level of tension is his body dropped a peg or three as Mickey turned to look up and down his team line, all of his guys nodding in mutual understanding and agreement. This was a medal war, not a vengeful spat for that fuckers name.

“His dad should have wiped it on the curtains,” Joe said gruffly and Mickey chuckled, looking back at Ben and his worry-face team. “He's fucked up enough in your life, kid, so it was only natural for us to be out for blood and it's the wrong type, we shouldn't be thinking like that. Sorry, Canada.”

“We get it, we do, but it's not fair to allow him another chance at ruining something for you, or us, or give him the satisfaction that'd come from knowing we _all_ had him in mind today. He deserves fuck all,” Ben smiled and Mickey took his offered hand.

“The only thing we should all be thinkin' is how much better than him we are, knowin' right from wrong and all that shit. But, that gold is _ours_ ,” Mickey gave a wink and Canada seemed to soften a touch around the edges, small nods and smiles before the Ref stepped into the middle and looked from coach to coach.

“Are we in agreement, gentlemen?”

“Yep, beef dropped. All out war for the metal,” Joe puffed up his chest and put his hand out for the Canadian coach.

The guy took it and nodded gratefully, smirking, “I completely agree.”

“You are leading in points,” The Ref nodded at Ben as the crowd noise level picked up in volume upon seeing the coaches shake hands, “Will you take the puck first or do you wish to hash for it?”

Ben looked from Mickey's grinning face to Bart's and he smirked so evilly that Senlintsky snorted, “I wanna hash it out with Barty Crouch, here.”

“Fucking _bring it on_ , Benjamin Button.”

The teams shook hands and benched, the only players left on the ice being those playing the first rotation and to start, with his handful of guys was Bart, leaving Mickey to sit with the rest on the other side of the glass wall. He found himself sandwiched between Jake and Louie as they settled and waited with baited breath as Bart and Ben faced off, bending over the ice while the Ref came forward and placed the puck in position before moving back out of strike range. He said something to each guy and a got a nod off each and then he put his hand up and blew the whistle; the game set off with a roar from the crowd and feverish grappling for the puck and a cacophony of cheering on for the players from their respective teams.

“Are you two able to work together or do I gotta split you up?” Mickey asked, not bothering to turn to either Louie or Jake as they would know who he was talking to and what about as well; the last match had been fairly rough but today's was going to be difficult and they could not afford to fuck up because of touches or looks again.

“Hey, we talked it out, remember?” Louie nudged Mickey with his shoulder and beamed at him, bright and sweet now he wasn't hidden by his helmet.

“Yeah, nothing's gonna happen. Everything's sorted, man,” Jake added and Mickey turned to him while Louie got up and hobbled to get a bottle from Thompson. Jake's face might tell the world that he was truthful but the tiny twinge in his voice and the way he focused on the brutal fight going on on the other side of the glass, that tiny twitch of his mouth and the small squint was anything but honest.

“We're talkin' after this,” Mickey said and Jake snapped his eyes to him, nervous glint giving him away further. He looked stupidly skittish in his kit, like a gazelle dressed up as a lion in a pride, terrified one of the felines would catch his scent and tear him apart. “You run from me and I'll hunt your ass like you're bleedin' and I'm a great white, you hear me?”

Jake swallowed at Mickey's _no room for argument_ tone and closed his eyes on an intake of air, “I hear you.”

“Good. Now, you're gonna go along with this lie 'cause as much as you guys are seamless in play, something's gonna go wrong and I ain't risking either of you gettin' hurt. Fuck medals, man, I ain't watchin' one of you go down or get cut or some shit 'cause you got too close to one another again. Play along,” Mickey urged and Jake couldn't argue with him, not now he had the band on his arm and not like he would anyway because it was clear he understood Mickey's view on whatever the fuck was going on, still, with Louie. “Coach? Brooker says his ankle doesn't feel top notch. I'll bench him so some poor fucker can wrap his stinky foot in tape, a'ight? I'll take on Carpenter until he's fit to play, then switch.”

Thompson looked a little peeved that this was being dropped on him now, but he sighed and peered at Jake who nodded and winced as he shifted. Louie was less than happy about this turn of events and stood over Jake, “The fuck you not say anything until now, tool?”

Mickey frowned, “Lou-”

“Get off my back, man, it was fine until I went to stand up just. Tried to hide it but 'Kovich has eyes more hawk-like than yours,” Jake butted in, dropping his gaze to his ankles as Joe called for a physio, untying his knots and clasps. Mickey was still watching Louie who looked frozen up, frowning hard but no longer agitated, more concerned and gentle.

“Louie, leave it, yeah?” Mickey asked quietly and Louie hummed, a light thing that made his body jump and he turned from watching Jake, trying to decipher what was going on as he watched Greg take out a Canadian player. A commotion caught Mickey's attention and he stood for a better look, swearing black and blue when he realised that Bart was bare-knuckle fighting with one of the Canadian defencemen, and getting his face beaten in regardless of how hard he was hitting the guy back. A whistle blew and Joe, having been preoccupied, was against the glass in a snap.

“What _the hell_ is going on?!” he screamed, banging the heels of his palms on the clear shield as the crowd broke into a two-sided booing match, yelling and screeching out in their fury. Bart, as Mickey watched on with a little horror sneaking up his back, was getting the hell punched out of him and it took all four referee's to pull the brawling pair apart, as well as players from either team holding them apart once separated. Not like they could argue when they were sent to their boxes, but Bart looked about ready to call the ref on his decision and the other player looked pitiful when he collected his things from the ice.

“I think Senlintsky needs a medic, boss,” Louie observed, squinting across the rink at Bart's bloodied face; his skin tone made it a little harder to see if he was bleeding bad or if he was just sweating profusely.

“Who the fuck was he brawlin' with?” Joe asked, waving at the medic and then pointing at the box. _Both of them_ he mouthed while Mickey and Louie scanned who was playing to work out who they were trying to name.

Mickey craned his neck as play resumed with Alonso going out to sub for Bart while he was checked over and penalised, “Carter? Is Carter missing?”

“Uh... yeah, it's him. Kinda hard to tell through all the blood, eh?” Louie chuckled and winked at Mickey, “Usually you who knocks his teeth out. Not surprised they put him on an opposing rotation though, bro, 'cause the fighting is gonna be bad enough without ass kicking beefs messing up the field.”

“Hey, he can't take that I can kick his ass with half a foot difference in height. S'a big baby and he can't take down the little guys, likes to go after someone his size. Surprised he went for Bart though, you know? I'd guess Greg if I had to put money on a fight,” Mickey shrugged, wincing when it looked like neither Carter or Bart would be coming back into play. There was a hand signal and Thompson growled in frustration.

“Medical reasoning. Fuckin' great!” he turned and gave Mickey a wry smile, “Good job I gave you that band, eh? Time to step into gear, kid, you've got under a minute before the whistle goes and then you're on. Buck up, ladies! Canada ain't fuckin' about so you don't let them take you out, hear me? Brooker, you're on final rotation. Carpenter, you're on kid.”

“Boss,” Harley nodded and squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath. Much as he was slender underneath all of his padding, Harley was a powerful little thing and super quick on his feet and, after playing with him a while and getting over his fear of Harley being hit and broken in half, Mickey knew he could rely on his forward as much as he could rely on Louie, Jake or Martin.

Jake had his boot off and was looking a little sheepish because whenever Mickey caught him glancing at the back of Louie's head, he flushed and suddenly found the blue tape being wrapped around his joint very fascinating. He had a weak ankle anyway so it wasn't like having the tape would ruin his play; if anything, it'd make him better, but Mickey needed him away from Louie if he could help it, until they were both in hockey mode and not thinking of anything but the puck and getting the score up.

“How's your shin?” Louie asked before he slipped his gum-shield into his mouth and fiddled with it to fit nicely, the buzzer announcing the end of first third. Mickey paid no attention to his tired team mates coming through the gate with swears and frowns at Bart and his shameful, busted up face. _What the fuck was that about, you complete clot-head?!_

“It's fine, Lou, don't gotta worry about me now. You level headed and ready to show the world who we are?” Mickey asked, tugging off his gloves so he could fix Louie's helmet straps for him. Louie gave him a wide smile and nodded a little, his teeth hidden by bright yellow silicone. “Bet you got those lucky pants on, haven't you, you fuckin' dork?” Mickey chuckled as Louie made a noise that sounded like _fucking hell yeah_ , his blue eyes shining under the shade of his helmet. “Please, for the love of fuckin' God, if you go over backwards, don't yell out man, not today. Not that I don't like savin' your life and freakin' the fuck out over you dyin', but I don't fuckin' like it, hear me?” he hoped he looked worried enough and tired about it all and Louie seemed to get it anyway, winking and nodding and making some kind of affirmative noise. “Good, jackass,” Mickey chuckled, double checking Louie's helmet and kit before lifting his own helmet, sitting down next to Jake to double check his boots before putting the chunky head gear on. Louie hobbled over and crouched, taking off his gloves to do what Mickey had to him; looking over his kit, strapping his helmet in place.

Louie had him covered and tipped forward, shifting his gum-shield between his teeth so he could speak a little, “Love you, man. Go' your bac'.”

Mickey snorted and fussed with getting Louie's gloves out of his lap, throwing them at his best friend, “Love you too, dork.” Mickey knew Jake was staring at them, shifting when Louie knocked their helmets together before shoving off to go and get his stick from the rack. “Camouflage it as much as you like 'cause numbnuts can't tell but you forget others can, hm?” Mickey wondered to himself before he shoved the shield in his mouth and knocked down his face guard, turning in his seat to stare at Jake with what he hoped was _don't fucking try and hide from me_ but in a gentle manner, letting the guy know that at least one person could see through the mask he'd perfected over the years. Jake might think nobody knows about him, but as observant as Brooker is, he usually fails to remember there is someone else who is far more clear sighted than himself; Mickey Milkovich.

Helping Mickey strap his gloves on tight, Jake sighed and bowed his head, not daring to look up, “You won't say anything, right?” Mickey grunted and Jake tugged his fingers to make sure the things weren't coming off easy, “Stupid question. Obviously you understand he has no idea and I ain't about to go telling the world either, about him or about me, just like you don't tell anyone who you really are. If nobody asks, nobody knows, do they?”

Mickey frowned and shifted his shield a little, “The fuck're you on abou'?”

Jake raised one dark eyebrow and gave Mickey a look he usually wore; unimpressed and sarcastic. “You really want me to spell it out for you?” he said lowly, his voice stupidly deep and endearing and Mickey nodded in understanding. He knew then, just like Mickey knew he was gay too. Kind of obvious when you think about it all, and if anyone else really thought, then nothing need be clarified unless someone outright asked. “Hockey time, assholes!” Jake cheered as Mickey gave him one last look, doing the V of his fingers in a _I'm watching you_ gesture that Jake rolled his eyes at, wriggling his non-injured toes while winking at Louie getting himself all psyched up, smiling back. Christ, what a blind situation. “Don't let me down, Harley!”

“Fucking won't, cripple,” Carpenter leered as he wobbled passed and shot out of the gate ahead of Louie.

Mickey pushed his shield into his mouth and shuffled it with his tongue until it sat perfectly between his teeth and bit down to keep it there, hobbling passed Louie to the gate and taking his stick when offered; he'd barely gotten into position when Louie took his and battled for the puck the second the buzzer and whistle sounded. The crowd went crazy loud, cheering and taunting and praising and trash talking with every breath they had while players shot around on their skates, fighting furiously to get within reach of the goals to score or at least give it a real good try.

Louie passed to Harley who shot around and threw it back as Mickey ghosted them, Milo left to guard Isaacs even though he was out of the threat zone for the moment while Mickey hovered around his forwards snatching the puck between the three of them; Martin took the puck and had to dance a little bit to avoid being knocked clean off his feet, shooting back to Louie who, as Mickey was currently zipping around the backs of Harley and two Canadian blocks, _was_ taken clean off his feet. He made some kind of squawk as he was then forced up off one foot and smashed chest-first into the wall and Mickey ducked, shoulder forward to smash into the defenceman responsible for the check as the guy was deliberately pinning Louie to the wall in a charade of _oh, I can't get my feet under me properly_ – a cheap move to keep Louie, their best shooter, away from the puck; Canada stole it back in a flash of red and white as blue and red bared down on them, Harley yelling while Martin zipped around trying to get it back and Milo braced to knock out feet and legs, Oliver pretty excited to have them come at him.

“Fucking _hell_ , Milkovich!” the Canadian yelped and Mickey felt the need to dig his bones in a little harder as he too, fought to relocate his footing. He was steady a fucking rock and the guy knew it, hissing as Louie's elbows and knee came into play. Maple leaved US sandwich because the guy was flush against Louie's back and Mickey's front, something Mickey found fun to toy with, folding his arms into his chest with a deep, groaned laugh.

“Shit man, _sorry_ , momentum, y'know?” Mickey grumbled, pushing himself upright by using his elbow in the guys back, “But, if you will opt for cheap shots, asshole, y'all get 'em back. Forget who's on the ice with you?” Mickey ribbed him, jeering as he hauled Louie free and shot off with a backwards chuckle at the other players swearing.

“Nice man, but uh, next time you could like, I dunno, make sure I ain't wedged? You came in like a fuckin' train, bro,” Louie whined as he shook out the aches and adjusted his grip on his stick.

Mickey scoffed, “Know you don't think I'm some tiny lil' thing, man, Christ. I've come at you harder before.”

“Uh, gross,” Louie giggled, “Never had a massive guy between us before. Oh my God, this is getting worse!”

“Filthy bastard,” Mickey gasped and shoved him hard towards where Harley and Martin were fighting to keep the puck as close to Canada's goal as possible. “Shoot for me.”

“Would you _stop_!?” Louie barked and shot off with a laugh. Mickey ghosted and ended up shooting the puck himself a few times, missing, but getting scarily close; Louie scored a handful of times, Martin too and Harley really trying his best, getting crushed and having to be smashed out of it by Milo and Mickey, nearly causing a brawl. Canada turned it around, always ahead by one, and every bit as eager to win the gold as their rivals. Now they'd been fighting for the best part of the game, Mickey and his guys were determined to get that gold medal. Milo got boxed for head-butting a player who checked him illegally, both of them scowling in their transparent prisons until their penalties were up.

Mickey glanced at the clock and found they had a few minutes before the second third was called; his focus drifted only a touch but it was enough as the puck sailed between his legs and he was bulldozed over by the chasing players, his own included. He went up and back and hit the rink with so much force that he couldn't breathe properly, instantly tucking into a ball to keep from getting cut by stumbling blades.

“ _Fuck_! Mickey? Mickey, you OK?” came a worried voice, not one he instantly recognised but, upon rolling out onto his back to cough and wheeze, the hazel eyes looking at him registered a bit. Conner Connelly, Luke's cousin.

“Yeah, winded,” Mickey coughed and managed to sit up, his back, ribs and head protesting extreme amounts of pain in violent stabs. The guy bent over him offered a hand and he took it, regardless of the player, and wobbled a little dangerously as he caught his breath with painful stretches of his chest wall. It's not that he didn't like Conner; a raven haired, heart of gold, sweet natured kid with a _ridiculous_ name, they got one really well but, in that moment, behind his guard and his voice muffled by his shield, he reminded Mickey was too much of his vile relative.

Conner seemed to understand that as he moved back and cleared his voice enough that it warped into something cheerful and his own again, “Sure you're good? I wiped you out, dude.”

“Yah, yeah, had worse, bud,” Mickey coughed and zipped off away from him, wincing with every other knock or check he was subjected to and he took another hard smash into the wall just as the buzzer and whistle went. _Had_ worse was turning into _experiencing_. He'd forgotten just how big some of the guys were, how much of them wasn't padding. “Fucking hellfire, _Christ_ ,” Mickey moaned, hissing when he removed his shield and realised he'd split his lip again. He glanced up at the supporters on the other side of the glass and jumped upon seeing Mandy yelling, Dean frowning down at him and Richard yelling with his daughter, possibly about fouls even though there wasn't one, just being overprotective and deeply supportive. And Ian. Ian looked like he was stunned stupid, his mouth partially open and his eyes wide and watery, staring right at Mickey while he grappled with the lip in the wall to stay upright. His blood was sprayed up the glass; he had hit it real hard and with a body behind him so, to his little group of personal supporters, he'd probably looked like a bird hitting a window and he knew he'd cried out in shock and pain. Probably the fucker who had trapped Louie, a fucker with a tag on his head now.

 _You OK?_ Ian mouthed with a wince and Mickey gave a shaky nod, pushing off the wall with a lingering look he hoped Ian could see clear enough and he hoped, as he skated off to bench, that Ian understood that he had to be blasé in the face of a roaring crowd. Ian didn't need the attention as much as he didn't.

“You good to play the last third, Mickey?” Thompson asked as the team sat close together, squished and hot and buzzing. “You took some hits and I know it hurts, I fucking know, so you feel you can't, you say so, right? Don't hide shit from me, you'll just end up worse off.”

Mickey chuckled and tipped his head back to guzzle water as someone on the bench behind him pressed an ice pack between his shoulders and against his lower back. “I'm fine. Just aches and pains, nothing I ain't played with before Coach, swear,” Mickey assured and turned his head a little, smiling at Seth beaming over his shoulder, “Such a _doll_ aren't you?”

“The best!” Seth rumbled, winking.

Much as the ice packs helped and the brief respite too, it really meant very little when Mickey was slammed four times in a row, cursing loudly and threatening the next player to dare check him, see what he gets for it. They were all legal moves, well within the rules, but they still hurt like nothing else, one smash after another forcing the air out of Mickey's every cell, making his blood ache and burn with the need for rebuke, some kind of release in the name of defensive vengeance. His final rotation had a new goalie in for Oliver, who was exhausted and bruised up a bit after having taken on two collisions, right into his net with a little too much excitement, and Anthony was raring to defend with every inch of his body. He was slightly bulkier in frame and had better goal coverage, ducked and stooped to block even though Louie, Jake and Seth were keeping the puck well away from him and tauntingly close to the Canadian goalie. His fire to keep that puck out of his goal was encouraging and helped fuel his team a little more despite them all feeling the ache in their legs now. This game was non stop duck, dodge and dive, slide, shoot and skate.

“Gregory!” Mickey sang as he skated through players and out the other side, knocking a red and white player off course with a bump in the ribs. “Ghost Brooker!” he shouted and Fulham nodded, already on Jake's tail as he snaked and weaved and went for a goal shot, nailing it and sending the arena into a deafening howl of booing and cheering again.

It took a good few minutes of battling for the puck and a failed shot at their own goal before Louie snagged the puck back and rocketed around the rink with Canada raining hell on him, eventually landing a good side tackle and ramming Louie into the wall where there was a gate, so hard and under-cut that he went up and over the wall, his blades the only thing visible once he hit the floor.

“Foul! _Foul_!” Thompson started yelling, so loud that he could be clearly heard over the arena's angry argument; Mickey had to agree, it was a massive foul and Louie was still down although his feet were moving like he was struggling to get himself freed up. Mickey went to go and rescue his friend but stopped short as personnel beat him to it, three of them working together to haul the blond up onto his skates. Louie, now on his legs, was not happy at all and even from the distance he was from him, Mickey could clearly see just how pissed he was and he was looking for the player who'd hit him. A whistle blew but it didn't stop Louie as he got back out and zeroed in on the guy he was looking for, flying at him with a yell and Mickey barely had the wherewithal about him to get in the way to stop it, Louie had moved so fast; within seconds, Louie had the player engaged in a fight, ragging him as much as he could as Mickey and Seth and got in close enough to try and tear them apart before they took each other to pieces, throwing bare-knuckle punches to open guard helmets. Louie's gum-shield flew out with a spray of blood as Mickey hooked his arms, catching Louie before he stumbled. Seth was shoved off as the angry Canadian began cursing and advancing.

“Don't you _dare_!” Mickey shouted over the bulk of Louie's shoulder, wrestling against his friend's serious attempts to escape, “Enough! Fuckin- Lou, _enough_!”

“He took me out hard enough to fuckin' send me over a fuckin' gate, Mick, I'm gonna tear his fuckin' neck out!”

“Let him go, Milkovich, let him come try it!”

Mickey groaned and yanked Louie hard enough to tip him to the side and land him on his ass, “Stay the fuck down, Jesus fucking Christ!” he quickly turned and pointed his chunky fingers at the other player who was heaving in air through his battered nose, “Don't you fuckin' dare try it, asshole, _don't_.”

Still, much as Seth pre-empted the guy and grabbed the back of his jersey, and no matter how quick the other Canadian players moved and as much as Mickey was ready, the guy was not to be stopped and Mickey still took a shock to his system when he was shoved out of the way and into the wall, face-guard first; it bowed and his teeth clacked and he dimly heard Louie yelling over the moan of pain he let out, his ears ringing. There were whistles and Mickey pushed himself up, barely feeling someone hauling him up off his knees and only really knowing about it when he heard jesus fuck and body swerve into his blurred vision. As his sight cleared, he swore; Louie was being yanked off towards the box and Jake was fighting with Seth and Greg, his naked fist bloody and raised as he snarled at the Canadian being dragged off with Louie, a ref in his face. Great. Fucking brilliant.

“I have no words,” Mickey muttered to himself, jumping when someone chuckled beside him.

“Ridiculous. Bad as it was, Mark had it coming. Always thinks he can rail on anyone he likes and rarely does anyone knock him to his knees. I think your Brooker is gonna end up with a few drinks bought for him for effort alone,” Ben sniggered and Mickey scoffed.

“Brooker is gonna wish he hadn't fuckin' done that,” Mickey nodded to where Thompson was waving his arms and screaming at Jake, hounding him towards the changing rooms without a second thought. That was Jake out of play then. Harley put his helmet on and came out, watching the box Louie was screaming up a storm in, yelling and arguing and hitting the glass that separated him from Mark, who was going at it just as much. The ref on the ice in front of them blew a whistle and both Mickey and Ben groaned.

“Fuck sake,” Ben skated off to talk with his coach while he could as Mickey watched on with a disappointed flush running through him. It wasn't for Louie really, it was the game, shit happened like that most of the time and he was lucky Jake had stepped in really, busted up as he was. No, the disappointment was that he was losing both his best friend in the last moments of the biggest game of their careers, and that he had just lost the teams best scorer. On came their freshest and most tenacious shooting forward, Zachary Turner, ready to throw himself into the lions den as he had, probably, the most energy in him out of the forward line.

“Give what you got, boys, we haven't got long before it's called. We may have lost our idiot shooters, but we've got two rested back, and I guess y'all been watchin' their strategy very closely?” Greg asked as they grouped up quickly. Harley nodded and Zach put up his thumbs.

“Look, we got fresh forwards, they only get a defenceman so we got the upper hand here. We are always one point behind so let's fuck them over and get two ahead. Think you can manage that? Ready for the _forceful approach_?” Mickey asked as he shoved his shield back in his mouth, knocking their sticks together. Time to really take out Canada's winning streak. They all made a noise of agreement with their mouths stuffed shut, skating apart and into position, Seth bent and ready to battle for the puck now he was the foremost forward while Zach moved so he was an unsuspecting distance behind him and ready for the disc. Mickey raised an eyebrow proudly and quickly glanced up to where he knew his watchers were, nodding at the four of them when they all gave him double thumbs up. The whistle blew and Mickey's body gave a scream of pain at the forceful lurch he pushed into, hell bent on clearing a line for his shooters while Greg mirrored him on the opposing side of the rink, both of them acting as battering rams going at a rate of knots. This was either going to work a treat or end in a trip to the local Emergency Room and regardless of what outcome was being plotted for him by the deity guiding his ass today, Mickey was going to go down with everything he had left in his body to give his guys the best chance they had at winning. All he needed to do was keep the defencemen busy with Fulham's help and keep the puck on the Canadian side of the central line. Three shots, that's all they needed.

Zach really was tenacious in his attacking and he scored two around the tiring Canadian team, Harley slotting in with another goal with half a minute left. Canada managed to brawl their way back towards Anthony who was more than ready, yelling _come at me!_ While Mickey got taken off his feet and bowled over, locking his legs around the waist of the guy who'd done it in an attempt to have them a man down. Greg took out another by flipping his attempted check over, twisting out of the way and sticking his ass out, knocking the Canadian into the wall with a little force, enough to have him stumble if anything, waving his fingers at him with a chuckle at the guy's incredulous cursing.

No matter how hard they defended and tried, Canada scored with five seconds left and there was no helping Seth when the clock started up again, his attempt at getting a draw failing with the blocks and tackles they were all subjected to in such a small amount of time; Mickey hit the glass again as the final whistle blew out, right in front of his parents, and was squashed by Greg, Harley and three Canadian brick walls who all crumpled and took him down, losing his legs and stick in the process with a gurgled moan of agony and loss. He was fairly sure he'd cracked a rib, or at least he was bruised up like a dark rainbow under his padding, but he felt proud to have fought as hard and as long as he had, stepping in for Bart while he was tended to in the medical building, and no doubt had Louie for company now. So they finished with silver? Like Thompson had said, that was still something huge, a big deal. Ian had gotten silver and with that reminder, Mickey smiled through his pain and chuckled.

“Fucking silver medals, boys!” he laughed deeply, a full bodied thing, and got groans in reply.

“Shut up. Stop laughing, you're jolting my stomach,” Greg bemoaned. “So many fuckin' bruises, oh my gosh.”

 

 

There was a party going on in the changing room and fuck whoever said it wasn't; there was Pepsi being passed around and someone's HTC blearing out some kind of mash-up of 90's songs and a hell of a lot of cheering praises and neck patting.

“You boys, I have nothing to say other than I am so goddamn proud. You did more than your best today!” Thompson yelled, spilling fizzy pop down his white shirt. “Even those of you fuckers who ended up busted. Still adore your stupid asses- sorry, your _silver medalled_ stupid asses,” he chuckled, slugging Bart hard against his thigh. Their captain had come back with a couple of stitches to cut on his cheekbone and a stress fracture in two of his knuckles, a packed nose and a fat lip and eye. Still, he was in good spirits and took the ribbing without complaint, nodding in agreement and saying as much himself; he'd acted like a dick-brained rookie, those were his words.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted Jake softly when he seemed to be avoiding Louie, hiding against the end of a line of lockers with a plastic cup in his hand, already suited in the kit for being decorated in. It was way too bright for any of their tired eyes, but it was a glorious sight nevertheless. “What you hiding for?”

“Not hiding,” Jake mumbled, dodging Mickey's eye until he had no choice as Mickey followed his head with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.

“I'd like to formally thank you for protecting Louie's ass. I couldn't-”

“I shouldn't have, I wasn't thinking and it wasn't clever-”

“Hey, don't. Someone hurt him and you put a stop to it. I'd have done it if I hadn't gotten smashed, you know that,” Mickey frowned and Jake sighed, shaking his head.

“It's not the same.”

Jake was folding in on himself and Mickey softened up entirely, shifting to pull him around the lockers, completely out of sight and earshot. The guys voice was small and pained and there was no hiding from Mickey, no matter how hard he tried to duck his head. “No, it's not,” Mickey agreed and Jake shrugged, swirling the Pepsi in his cup so Mickey pretty much breathed in his ear, “How long have you been in love with him?”

Mickey expected some kind of visceral reaction but all he got was a huge intake of air and sigh of resignation, sad eyes darting to his for a second before Jake muttered, “I can't remember being out of it,” into his cup, taking a gulp. Someone roared with laughter behind the lockers but Mickey barely flinched, eyes locked on his sorry looking target, searching for something. God, he pitied the guy so much right then because even with the puppy-eyed looks and lingering touches that were obvious to Mickey's eye, Louie was dense and without being blatantly told, he'd never catch on to Jake's soft suggestive behaviour, _if_ he was even trying to get Louie to notice.

“What a stupid fucking move to pull then, hm? The fucking,” Mickey lowly, gently even and Jake sighed again, nodding. “Caught in a moment... I get that. I so get it, but still, you gotta be hurting something wicked now. I love Louie so damn much but I know he won't ever understand any of your subtleties, he just won't, 'cause it's Louie. 'Sides that, he's new to it all, and he'll be thinkin' you gave him a new outlook on sex or whatever, and maybe he won't carry on with the guy side of it all, or maybe he will and you gotta watch that. Jake, man, why'd you slip up so bad?”

Jake gave Mickey such a soft look, his eyes begging to be understood, “Got too caught up in him.”

Mickey rubbed at his eyes and hung his head, “Shit, I gotta nail this in, sorry man but as much as I would fuckin' love for you to be with him because you're wonderful, he will see you as a fuck buddy because he isn't on the same page, he's new to it all, he sees it as discovering fun shit... are you still gonna love him when he bypasses you for some other guy? Thought of that? Still gonna love him when he comes to you in the middle of the night because he's horny and wants to fuck, uses you and leaves? You still gonna love him when it gets so difficult to be near him that you can't bare it and have to distance yourself? Still gonna love him when he decides you're not worth the hassle once the distancing becomes too much, finds someone new, has a life with them and all you got is a fuckin' memory from this place? All those years of being close to him but not close enough, all those memories are gonna taste so bitter...”

Jake shook his head and gave Mickey a heart breaking stare, “Mick, please don't.”

“Jake, you know I love you and I love him like he's my own flesh and blood but you can't keep this up,” Mickey said softly, cupping Jake's neck because he needed the guy to understand he wasn't being a dick for the sake of being a dick, he had to be the one speaking clearly, he had to understand that Louie couldn't see Jake for what he wanted him to. “What if it happens again... Look, I ain’t about to go all _listen to reason_ on you, ‘cause you’re an adult for fuck sake, and more so 'cause I know you ain’t gonna hurt him, you just wouldn’t. I _am_ concerned though, I’m real worried _he’s_ gonna hurt _you_.”

“I'm a big boy-”

“Fuckin' stop with that bullshit right there. Adult or not, a heart's a heart and it fuckin' hurts when it's stomped on. He ain't gonna do it lightly 'cause he an elephant that hasn't got a clue and that's dangerous, man,” Mickey was desperate, Jake knew it, he couldn't not know with how tight Mickey's hand had gotten and how thick his voice was. “You play with this fire for too long and it's gonna incinerate you. I can't watch you do that, not for anyone and especially not a blind fool who won't understand what he's done until you're dust. I may love him, but it doesn't mean I'm gonna sit tight and watch you destroy yourself over his dorky ass.”

Jake winced and bit his lip, going willingly into Mickey's hug, “I'm fucking stupid.”

“Nah, you're not. Emotion fucks with how with deal with things and I get it, but please be careful from now, a'ight? Either find out where he stands on this thing you got going on, tell him maybe or back the hell away before he crushes you even more than he is already,” Mickey said into his neck, jumping when someone yelled out his name.

“Like he's gonna admit shit to me.”

“So I'll talk to him,” Mickey stated and pulled back.

“Boys!” Thompson roared, his voice full of excitement as Mickey moved back into the throw of things, Jake leaning against the end of the lockers again, his face casual and unassuming, “News just in: that last goal scored by Canada was an illegal move. They have been deducted their point, which means a draw, right? Holy shit, no! They lose three of their already ranked ones as a penalisation, so, guess who the fuck has upgraded from silver to gold you sons of bitches?!”

“USA!” the team rallied, jumping and ragging on each other, yelling and crowing and absolutely losing their shit over it. Mickey sat down, he had to, stunned that they had won; so it was by default, but they had fought so fucking hard and right for it that really, it was their win, no matter that Canada had had to pull a stunt for them to come crashing down to their knees. If they hadn't have done that, USA would have won anyway.

It wasn't five minutes later when, in the throw of celebrating with a fresh cup of bubbling pop, that Mickey felt strong arms snake around his shoulders. He quickly glanced up and saw Louie cackling with Seth over something, stopping short when his lip gave him shit, so it wasn't him. Jake was talking to Milo.

“Hey,” Ian. Mickey's heart freaked out in his chest and his belly rolled with sickly butterflies.

“Oh my God, how'd you get in?” Mickey rushed as he dropped his cup in the bin closest to him and turned to wrap Ian in a tight hug, burying his face in the skaters pale neck, inhaling his skin and warm smells. His day was just getting all kinds of better now he wasn't on ice.

“Thompson came and found me. Told your dads too but they're saving their seats, said they'll whore you after,” Ian chuckled into his shoulder.

“Hey, boys, look who it is!” Greg called, breaking the moment a little. Mickey pulled back and smiled apologetically.

“Come to see what a real medal looks like, Torch?” Louie laughed, stopping again rather quick.

“What, you think they make your silver medals outta different silver to mine?” Ian sassed and frowned when they all burst out laughing. “Am I missing something?”

Mickey winked and thumbed his lip to fight down his shit eating grin, “Canada pulled an illegal move. We got the gold.”

Ian's face fell into blank shock, his beautiful eyes wide and his bow lips slack, “Fucking no way.”

“Fucking _yes_ way!” Seth chuckled.

Ian's face morphed into an obscene level of elation, his eyes watering, his lips curving into a wide open, toothy smile like he'd won the thing himself. “I am so fucking proud of you right now,” he said seriously, hands creeping down to Mickey's middle back.

“Oh yeah?”

“You have no idea, no fucking idea how much. I'm finding it _real hard_ expressing it, you know?” Ian hummed and ducked to kiss Mickey's forehead, pressing his own there while he simply stared with glowing eyes and a beaming smile, eyes darting down to Mickey's mouth. He looked giddy, like a child busting to tell the world how happy they were, waiting for the go-ahead.

“Hey, on the count of three, right, how about we all turn around and you got like, 'til the count of five to express it,” Louie suggested to everyone, something Ian flushed pink at and Mickey groaned painfully. “We won't say a word about this to anyone. C'mon, kiss for fuck sake, you look like you want to burst from how much you want it... we won't look.”

Jake held up a hand, “What about Coach? He don't like seeing _any_ kinda PDA.”

“He's outside talking to an official,” Bart said happily. “No reason to hold back, Mick. You didn't have that sandwich earlier so uh, eat face.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Mickey breathed as Baker yelled out _one, two, three_ and the entire room turned their backs. Ian gave a questioning quirk of his eyebrow and Mickey sighed, nodding like he was being forced but Ian, smiling as he gave a deep, pride filled kiss, knew he was just playing him.

A loud, collective _oooooooh_ tore them apart with furious, bashful glances, Ian licking his bottom lip into his mouth only making it worse. He was grinning cheekily, the fucker. “I hate your team, you know that?” he teased, flipping them all off.

Mickey scoffed and scowled at them all, making each guy shrug with _oh, what? What?_ Faces, going back to their celebrating or knowing smiles. “Not as much as I do, goddamn spying motherfuck-” his light rant was cut off by Ian placing his finger to his lips with a chuckle. There, right in front of him, stood his real golden win; that bright smile and expressive set of eyes, green and gleaming with pride and adoration.

“I'm real happy you're in here right now,” Mickey said, “Made my day.”

Ian smiled and hooked him close, holding tight and sure and so exceptionally well that Mickey melted against him, humming a laugh while Ian sighed against his ear, “My day is always made when I see you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAS! 
> 
> I love you all for sticking with me and i hope you aren't too disappointed in this chapter, i know it's all hockey, but that's what Mickey's about :} and the whole Jake thing, Mickey is his friend and he worries and i love being able to show how much he cares about his friends, as i show them caring more often than he does :} onward, onto party times and ... shit. partings. NO!
> 
> tumblr: i am @youknowyoutried :} and i have prompts centered on this, and Louie/Jake too. Brael, that's their ship name lol and i love that they have one because of some of you wonderfluff lovelies adore them so much.


	19. A Little Less Conversation (a little more touch my body)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to press stints, Mickey and his boys are allowed their pizza and a night in, a night in that turns sweet and sour with Mickey playing the taste testing referee. Mickey has a free day and he spends it with his 'angel' of a dork, completely out of his comfort zone but he keeps his head level with Ian, because Ian is steadily becoming his rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, what a great big huge massive giant gap between updates. I am sorry, you guys, i have just had a load of stuff on my plate! But here i am! And i hope this is satisfactory :} I'm winding it down a bit due to it getting close to the end and i have to try and space it so i don't end it prematurely. I hope you like it :} LOVE YA! Song title from Ariana Grande - Into You (also the song he sings. suggest you listen to it if you haven't ;D )  
> WARNING: smut. Arguments - Louie and Jake. Fluff - Ian and Mickey.

 

“ _No party tonight. We have press tomorrow.”_

 

That's what Thompson had said, much to the delight of his buzzing team, but the happy mood didn't drop too much – they had pizza and beer, the latter on the proviso that they don't chug it. Three bottles each and correctly made pizza had been more than ample to keep the guys happy. Mickey was stood in his kitchenette, downing the last of his second bottle while trying not to spray it right back out in a laugh.

“You're a fucking cheat and a half, asshole!” Louie snapped, clawing at the counter-top while he wrestled with Ian's unmovable arm.

“Baby. Someone doesn't like to lose, hm?” Ian taunted, pouting as Louie swore and wriggled, trying his hardest to shift Ian even a little. Jake was chuckling where he sat on the floor by the TV, licking pepperoni oil from his wrist, Bart was sitting right next to Louie's stuck out ass on a stool, snorting at the blond's childish whining.

“You're cheating!” Louie gasped, groaning and growling the harder he pushed, Ian barely swaying and deliberately checking the nails of his other hand to piss Louie off. Mickey sucked in his bottom lip and shook his head.

“How on _earth_ is he cheatin', Louie?” Bart laughed, running the crust of his pizza through some garlic mayonnaise. “I can't see anythin' that warrants your accusations, dude,” he said with a wink, popping the crust in his mouth.

“Fucker's gotta have super glued his elbow down or some shit! Mick, Mickey, tell him, bro!”

Mickey chortled at Louie's whining and moved around to stand behind Ian, grinning around his bulging arm at Louie's reddening face, “He ain't cheatin' Lou.”

“Just accept that someone is stronger than you, Louise,” Jake piped from across the room, staring down the stringy cheese trying to smack him in the face. Milo came back from the bathroom and rolled his eyes, going to sit by Jake.

“Still at it? Christ.”

“Yuh,” Jake said around his mouthful, smiling and winking as Milo used his shoulder to lower down without falling backwards, helping himself to the pizza without asking. Louie swore blind.

“Motherfucker, _come on_!” Louie was starting to sweat from what Mickey could see so he tried to help his best friend out a little by running his hand up Ian's nape and into his hair.

“Stronger than he looks, this one, very powerful,” Mickey said fondly, though the hidden implication was clear as day. Rather than Ian having a wobble, Louie did and moaned as Ian's hand very nearly pinned his to the breakfast bar.

“Ooh, you're gonna pay for that sabotage attempt,” Ian teased, winking at Mickey who snickered and flushed a little too warm at Louie's dirty grin.

Jake chuckled and Mickey turned at the sound, eyebrows rocketing into his hair as he caught sight of the guy feeding Milo slices of pepperoni from his fingers, then rubbing the oil all over his face like a pie, Milo swearing and spluttering. Ian crowed and Mickey turned to see Louie defeated and red faced, frowning real hard at Jake for a second before he realised Mickey was staring at him, then he looked at the floor and it was like a wall had gone up, the fake laugh and smile so see through that even Bart narrowed his eyes, no longer hypnotised by greasy cheese.

“Sup with him?” Bart asked as Louie engaged Ian over another bottle, his back to the rest of the room in a blatant display of annoyance. “He usually whines and whines about losing. Can't shut the boy up normally.”

Mickey shrugged, thumbing his lip, “Tired, I think. He'll complain like a bitch tomorrow.” Louie was nowhere near 'tired' and all Mickey could do was hope he didn't call Jake out and embarrass himself in the process – not that he had anything to call him on, really, Jake had been friends with Milo for years, on the same home team and all that. Though, Mickey realised as he watched Louie's eyes narrow and his jaw clench, those kind of details often got forgotten in the face of pure, raging jealousy. Ian was eyeing Louie with suspicious amusement, following his eye-line carefully, though Mickey could see him doing it even if nobody else could.

“True!” Bart laughed, closing up his pizza box and collecting his bottles, dumping the lot in a black bag by the fridge, “Thank you for the _hospitality_ , Mick, but I'm shattered. Night, Milkovich, boys, Ian.”

“Wait! We'll come too. 'Bout time we hit the sack,” Milo hopped up, wiping at his face with his sleeves in an attempt to rid it of orange lines and Jake followed with his pizza, nodding, still eating it. He gave Mickey greasy kiss on his cheek and wandered out without a word, too busy eating to want to give up any movement of his mouth to words. Louie huffed loud once he was alone with Mickey watching him and Ian watching Mickey for some kind of answer as to where this weird mood had come from.

“Best go too,” Louie said softly, moving to hug Ian quickly and kiss Mickey's forehead, “See you in the mornin', bro. I'm OK, before you say anythin', just tired.”

Mickey followed Louie to the door and caught his elbow, “Don't go after him now, 'K? You're pissed off-”

Louie closed his eyes and look so very lost, “Moo, I'm just _tired_.”

Mickey let go of his friends elbow and tried to keep the saddening frown off his face but it was fucking hard not to let it crumple, “If you say so.”

“I do, promise,” Louie said and painted the most fake cheer Mickey had ever seen on his face as he leaned around Mickey to catch Ian's eye. “Goodnight Torch, don't do shit I wouldn't do!” Louie smiled, accepting Mickey's kiss and what he hoped was a reassuring hug before leaving. Mickey watched him until he vanished into his own room, just on the off chance that Louie went after Jake and started fighting with him. It was innocent, but Louie was tired and had had a few beers and it was clear he saw it as something else, though why he would, and why would it affect him so quickly only left Mickey wondering with a brewing headache. Mickey sighed and shut the door to find Ian collecting the rest of the trash, eyeing him with a questioning gleam but thankfully, he didn't ask. _Damn_ he looked good stretching over the sofa for a bottle – goddamn mint t-shirt. Mickey didn't even try to hide that he was checking him out when Ian perked up an eyebrow and smirked at him, Mickey merely offering a childish _problem?_ face which Ian chuckled at and may or may not have purposely stuck his backside out.

“So,” Ian started after everything was bagged and ready to go to the chute, “We can do anything we like.”

Mickey's head whipped up from his once over of the carpet, “Excuse me?”

Ian laughed and Mickey's skin danced to it, “He said not to do shit he wouldn't so, that leaves absolutely nothing, except sex maybe...'cause we're guys.” Ian dropped his bags by the door and moved over to Mickey, gently placing his hand against the side of Mickey's head, his thumb stroking over his hair and temple while he smiled softly and looked at Mickey like he was _someone_ , “I'd not assume anything anyway, even more so with you being so bashed up from your escapades on the rink today. So fucking proud of you, I really, _really_ am.”

Mickey smiled a great, face warming smile and put his hand over Ian's, placing his other on the skater's cut hip under his stupidly tight t-shirt, “Thanks, man. Feels good, winning.”

“Hmm, it does,” Ian smiled warmly as he closed the space between them and pressed a firm kiss to the corner of Mickey's mouth. Ian moved away before Mickey could chase his mouth and started wiping down the counter-tops and the bar, scanning the other surfaces in the room for any residue or crumbs, “He gonna be alright?”

Mickey frowned, one eyebrow dropping more than the other as he watched Ian chew his thumb absently, really rubbing at a spot on the bar with nothing on it, “Course he is. He's just tired.”

“Sure looked it, but then carrying a heavy heart will drain you I guess,” Ian said softly, his eyes lifting to Mickey's, holding them strong with a light that screamed he just knew. “I'm not blind, Moo. I can see unrequited shit when it's as obvious as the Olympic torch on the slope but, as you aren't saying anything, I guess it's likely that nobody but you and him knows, so I won't push you for any details or whatever, it's not my business to talk about. Just, I know, I saw it, _see_ it. And,” Ian sighed heavily, turning to rinse the cloth in the sink for a second, speaking over his shoulder sweetly, “I worry about him. It's horrid when you can't help someone in pain.”

Mickey slid onto a stool and put his face in his hands for a moment, rubbing at his skin as it itched with frustration, “Jake's a big boy, and I've talked to him about it, warned him he's gonna get hurt. He knows it's a dangerous game he's playin', lovin' someone when there's a fat fuckin' chance nothing's gonna ever happen, much as he wants it, 'cause he fuckin' fell for the biggest skirt chasin' motherfucker this side of the planet. _Goddamn_ it, when did my life U-turn back to highschool? Like a pair of kids.”

“Jake?”

Mickey peered through his fingers at Ian leaning against the side opposite him, a curious crease making his face look like he'd stolen it off a puppy, “Uh, you said you saw it?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ian dragged out, his mouth curling into a slow smile as he took careful steps forward until he was leaning on his elbows right in front of Mickey, “I wasn't looking at Jake, though. I was talking about _Louie_.”

Oh shit. _Wait_. “Lou? Unrequited- you saw that in _him_?”

Ian took a deep breath and shifted with it, smiling sweetly and dancing his fingers along the bar, “Pretty damn obvious, but don't feel shitty for not spotting it. You haven't been looking for it, but guess that's 'cause you don't think it'd be there in the first place... and you know him so well that sometimes things can be overlooked. I'm an outsider, I see things with fresh eyes. I would have seen it if Jake were the one looking at Louie but Jake was doing everything in his power not to, now knowing it's there makes it easier to see it as keeping his cards close rather than just finding other things distracting...” Ian trailed off for a second, deep in thought and Mickey was left staring at him like he was some psychic as he mumbled to himself about the obviousness of it all. Ian stopped and his eyes flashed and he smiled, leaning close again with a naughty look on his face, “So, _something_ happened, and I'm betting it wasn't innocent either? I can work it out, no need to spill the beans, but I think we need to lock them in a room together until something is done or wait them out until they ultimately clash. Either way, they need to talk 'cause Louie pulling the kicked puppy look is _really_ sad.”

Mickey snorted and pressed his forehead to Ian's, “Got that right.”

“Now,” Ian said as he cupped Mickey's face and thumbed his cheekbones, “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh my god, fuckin' dork!” Mickey chuckled, sobering with a soft smile, “Of course you can.”

Ian clicked his tongue, “I was asking because of the state of your lip. It's pretty angry, Moo, don't wanna hurt you.”

“Can kiss me carefully?” Mickey suggested, really in the mood for some kissing now Ian was sighing and nuzzling against him, humming low in his throat, eyes bright and dirty. He was aware of the split in his lip but without having looked in a mirror at all, he had no idea just how bad it was and knew Ian wouldn't play something up if it wasn't all that bad. “ _Or_ , if you'd rather not risk it, there's plenty more of me you can kiss,” Mickey said with a cocky smirk and Ian hummed like he'd been told he was allowed at the cake he'd been wanting all day, moving one thumb to tease the corner of Mickey's mouth.

“God, _please_?” that was definitely a prayer, said on a groaned sigh that really should be illegal in all countries.

Mickey licked the tip of Ian's thumb, “I wasn't _suggesting_ so you don't gotta ask. I was stating facts, twinkle toes.”

Ian forewent an answer, instead he moved from his spot and rounded the breakfast bar with easy strides of his long legs, hands up and then they were carding strong fingers through Mickey's hair, locking together to hold his head still while Ian's lips and tongue started a heated rampage along the cord of Mickey's neck. Mickey's hands curled into fists in surprise and then they were roaming Ian's bent back, clutching the fabric of his t-shirt when the skaters mouth found a deliciously sensitive spot and sucked, rolling his tongue and humming.

“How long have you been wanting on that patch, huh?” Mickey breathed, his eyes rolling just as Ian added teeth, smiling against the damp skin he was nuzzling and flicking with his tongue.

“All damn day,” Ian murmured, his voice dropping. Mickey tipped his head back and gave up trying to control his mouth because this was Ian and Ian had already managed to pull the most inhuman noises from him. Mickey's blood started to bubble through his body, heating his legs and spine on its path, Ian steadily straightening so he could kiss behind Mickey's ear and sink his teeth into the flesh along his hairline on his nape merely sped it up, his groin tingling and waking up like nobody's business. Ian was pressing closer, moving his hands in a joint, pressured stroke down Mickey's chest to his waist where he held and used the grip to gently push. Mickey's legs back peddled and Ian's ghosted his steps with perfect choreography, like he was Mickey's giant ginger, moaning, greedy shadow.

“I wanna kiss your mouth, suck your lips-”

“Fuck _sake_ , so do it!” Mickey whined, tipping his head to the side as Ian dragged his teeth from his shoulder up to his ear, teething the lobe with a grumble.

“I can't. If I go anywhere near your mouth, I won't be able to stop myself and I'll end up breaking your lip open. Wanna swallow all your noises, I wanna taste them. I wanna kiss and kiss and kiss your fucking mouth, Christ, Mickey,” Ian, despite his worrying, couldn't stop himself once he pulled back enough to look at Mickey's flushing face and droopy eyes, his heaving chest and open mouth. He caught Mickey's bottom lip between his own gently and started to suckle it, stopping with a pained groan and pulled back, looking sorry and seriously not.

“Please, just do it? If it hurts, I'll stop you, I promise. _Fuck_ , just-” Mickey gave up and pulled Ian in with a hand in his hair and opened his mouth as their lips met, immediately meeting Ian's tongue and feeling like his knees had momentarily vanished. God, he'd wanted this heat for hours, these kind of kisses and sounds and grabbing hands clawing at his ass and bunching his shirt when Ian tried to pull him up and as close as possible without actually picking him up. Christ was he hot and hard and fluid, even with Mickey's body seeping into his own.

“Much as I wanna-” Ian broke the kiss and pushed Mickey back just a bit, hands flying to undo his belt, “Fuck you hard and fast and _Jesus_... I won't. You're hurt and I'm not going to back down, ain't cracking on this one. Nope, don't even look at me in that tone of begging, I won't do it. But, how about you watch me play with _my_ self? No touching, just watching. Would you like that?”

Mickey swallowed hard as his belt popped open and his jeans were shimmied down his thighs, Ian pulling his top off quickly. “Yes, I fuckin' would like that. I can't touch you though, seriously?” he knew he sounded like a child being denied a console, but he wanted his hands and mouth on Ian, biting, licking, sucking and mapping every damn inch while the guy turned into a state of blabbering need.

“No,” Ian said softly, cheeky gleam in his eye as he stepped back and lost his t-shirt and dropped his jeans. “Take it all off except your boxers and lay on the bed.”

“Can't I just-”

“Nope. Bed, Mickey,” Ian sing-songed as his boxer clad ass bounced back into the living room. “You'll enjoy it, and once you come, you can touch me all you like. Hell, I'll run you a bath and massage your neck and stuff, make you all boneless before you go to sleep,” Ian came back in with a bright smile and the armchair that had been tucked into a corner, out of the way.

“Can I touch myself?”

“Yeah, of course... or would you like me to tell you when?” Ian asked, concentrating on putting the chair in just the right spot, centre of the arch, facing the bed. Mickey swore through his teeth and closed his eyes, inhaling deep through his nose to calm the fuck down. He jumped as hands trailed up his bare legs, clawing his thighs and up to squeeze his ass. “Fuck, your ass, Mick.”

“S'what I want, but you're being a mean fucker and denying me,” Mickey grumbled, opening his eyes and shaking because Ian was on his knees between Mickey's, dangerously close to nosing his cock through his boxers and barely keeping himself in check.

“Won't hurt you.”

“You won't-”

“Your bruises say otherwise,” Ian said, his face serious and suggesting Mickey keep it shut. When Mickey managed to bite down his begging - because that's what was coming up - Ian smiled and opened his mouth, holding the line of Mickey's swelling dick in his mouth, blowing hot air and dragging his teeth just a bit, laving the fabric until it was wet and Mickey was rolling his hips and chewing his thumb knuckle. Ian's hands kneaded the swell of Mickey's backside, periodically tugging the waistband down but with no real intent until Mickey whimpered, the noise breaking something within Ian; the skater moaned around his mouthful and stood up, quickly stripping Mickey of his underwear and pushing his own down, taking both of them in hand and planting wet, slow and aroused kisses along Mickey's tight neck. He threw his head back and very nearly went with the momentum.

“Ian, seriously, you said no touching,” Mickey whined deeply, grabbing Ian's jerking wrist while his other hand stole away into soft locks of fire because this little shit was most definitely becoming the devil, groaning and kissing Mickey's Apple because the tease of his teeth had Mickey's hand fisting his hair in response.

“I said you couldn't touch me,” Ian's voice was dark and Mickey sighed as it washed over him, holding his face close against the skin he was loving, “Want me to stop?”

“Fuckin' dare and see what you get,” Mickey chuckled, tugging Ian's hair when he bit over an old mark, reviving it with an ache. Ian's hip rolling was getting sharper, his cock hard and hot and soft against Mickey's, his fingers sure. Mickey tried to match him but gave up, letting Ian have whatever control he wanted because God, he felt so good, so wanted right there with Ian humming and playing with him. Ian held Mickey's jaw between his thumb and fore-fingers, tilting Mickey's face to the side so he could nip along the line of bone, grinning at Mickey's hisses and swears. Then he was kissing Mickey slowly, so very slowly, stealing his top lip, sucking his bottom one gently, licking along the plumpness of it with a pointed tongue, snagging their lips together. He was teasing much more than he was kissing and it was insanely good, Mickey pushing the flat of tongue out to try and coax Ian's into his mouth with low, growling grunts. Ian was grinning, the cheeky fucker, knowing his hold on Mickey's jaw and cock were the only reasons Mickey was keeping still at all, giving over and Ian was certainly taking that control, but in a gentle way.

“You're so pretty,” Ian sighed, watching Mickey's face with hooded eyes and spit shined lips.

“Not a fuckin' girl, man, ain't nothin' pretty about me,” Mickey muttered, sighing heavily as the pad of Ian's thumb ran back and forth of the head of his cock, smearing a bead of fluid as it went. Ian turned Mickey's face and held him until he opened his eyes, _hey_ , a light frown on his face as Mickey tried very hard to keep his eyes on him and not roll them away.

“Guy, girl, animal, house – don't give a shit, if you're pretty, you're fucking pretty, you hear me?” Ian said fiercely, his eyes dancing between Mickey's, “You're fuckin' gorgeous. I will tell you every day for as long as I'm around until you fucking believe me, see if I don't. Honesty, Mickey, you know my policy.”

Much as he wanted to argue with Ian, deny all knowledge of such things, the look on Ian's face said he wasn't fucking around and he was deadly serious. Mickey already knew that though, he did, but old habits die slowly and he swallowed, licking his lip with a slight bob of his head. “Thank you,” Mickey said uncertainly and so quietly he wasn't even sure he'd said it and not just thought it, his eyes flashing to the floor and back to Ian rapidly like he was nervous. He wasn't, he was just unsure. Ian's face morphed into a sunny smile and Mickey smiled softly as Ian ducked in and kissed him sweetly, cupping Mickey's jaw, thumbing his ear. The sweetness lasted all of five seconds as Ian's other hand started moving again, his hips too, and Mickey tore his mouth away with a whine.

“How does you lip feel?” Ian asked lightly, running his hand up to the crown of Mickey's head to hold him still again, stopping him before he could throw it back.

“Fine.”

“Good,” Ian sighed and then he was kissing Mickey with desperate need, licking into his mouth and barely disconnecting their lips with every slide, groaning and snapping his hips and swallowing the noises Mickey let out, holding him up. Mickey gave as good as he got, digging his fingers into Ian's forearms, his dick throbbing with the wet smacking of their lips, his hips rocking.

“Fuck!” Mickey barked, Ian pulling away for a second to whimper and look down, forcing Mickey's head down so he could look too. Mickey groaned at the sight of his cock in a wet grip, staring at Ian's and watching them get tugged at, feeling them getting tugged. Then Ian was stealing his breath again, kissing his need and want into Mickey with sure licks and hard jerks of his wrist – then Mickey was tumbling backwards, his dick free and his mouth tingling and stinging a little. The bed was chilled against his ass and back but it mattered little against Ian's hot gaze from where he was sitting on the armchair, his face dark and overshadowed by arousal. _Fuck_ , Mickey's stomach rolled and his back flashed with shards of _mine_. How the hell was he meant to be able to keep the fuck still when Ian was looking at him like he wanted to ravage him, eat him, fuck him for hours. God, Mickey wanted that, he _really_ wanted that, but he was being denied and that made him whine and his heart bang at the injustice of it all. He'd not seen such a look on Ian's face as yet, but then, most of the time, he was way to close and Mickey was so overridden with pleasure and _Ian_ that he hadn't thought to really look at him in the throws of passion.

“Sit back,” Ian instructed, getting comfortable on the chair, hooking his legs over the arms to have his legs spread and expose himself to Mickey's greedy eyes. Mickey did as he was told and settled back against the headboard with the soles of his feet together and his knees out. Two could play at this game. “Jesus Christ,” Ian hissed, his mouth hanging open, “Copy me.”

Ian rans his hand from his jaw to his collarbone and down to his chest, dragging his nails and arching a little when they caught his nipples. Mickey followed the movements with his own hands, biting his lip and drinking in everything he could see, mapping his ribs and stomach, the lines of his muscles and the dip of his bellybutton as Ian did. When Ian's hands travelled lower and started rubbing the insides of his thighs, the V of his groin, Mickey groaned – he loved that feeling, hands rubbing as close to his dick as possible, and it always set the fire raging. Now was no different, but it was very different at the same time; it felt like Ian was doing it, but he wasn't, it was Mickey's own hands pawing at his heated skin but he felt like they didn't belong to him, because in that moment, no, they didn't. They belonged to Ian. _He_ belonged to Ian.

Ian was panting as he ran his hands as far along his outstretched legs as he could reach, dragging his fingers back towards his groin without breaking the hold his stare had over Mickey. Mickey's toes curled a bit, thumbing the line of his hips as Ian did. He very nearly stopped breathing, watching Ian lick over his palm dirtily, trying so hard to copy but he was a little stumped by the sight, moaning at the unfairness of it all when Ian popped an eyebrow and gripped his cock in his wet hand and ducked his other down low enough to rub and squeeze his ass cheek.

“Mickey,” Ian said, dark and dangerous and laced with the promise of punishment – would he actually punish Mickey? Would he spank him? Tie him down? Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey shook at the thought. He trusted Ian. He would let him.

“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey groaned, finally complying and barely withholding the snap of his head when he took himself in hand, feeling Ian's hands instead, palming his ass, exposing his hole every now and then. Ian had the better position for that hidden treasure to be seen, and when he ghosted his fingertips over his own, Mickey suddenly had the fidgeting urge to fly over there and eat his ass. Would he let Mickey do that?

“S'the matter? You look like you're fighting with yourself,” Ian chuckled, hissing and bowing his back again at the feel of his thumb pressing his ass open a little. Mickey's face creased with need, with desperation, as his body jerked and screamed at him to disobey whatever this was and do as he damn well pleased.

Mickey didn't reply, now on automatic mimic, stroking his aching shaft as Ian did, smooth movements, not slow, but not rapid either. He did something Ian didn't; he sucked on his own fingers and moaned around them, soaking them with as much spit as he could produce, which, given what he was watching, was a flood.

“Naughty. I didn't say-”

“Fuck what you said, goddamn it Ian, I can't go in dry,” Mickey whined, his voice high and needy and it annoyed him but it seemed to please Ian if his dark chuckle was any indication. Mickey closed his eyes and shifted back a little more and opened his legs wide, bending his back to have them hanging over his shoulders.

“OK, much as... fuck it. Do what you want, Jesus, Moo. _Fuck_!” Ian sounded like he was being ripped apart but Mickey couldn't look at him, he didn't dare, because he was sure he'd come all over his hand if he did. He was on fire, his arousal peaking and dropping like a float on a fisherman's line. He sank his index finger in first and, still feeling like they weren't his own hands, Mickey let out a broken shout and clenched his jaw to stop the gasping grunts for a second as he focussed on not dying from the sensational overload.

“Oh my God,” he got through his teeth, twisting and jabbing his finger while the other hand came down and pulled one cheek to the side and Ian? Ian swore so heatedly and raw that Mickey found himself stopping and looking at the redhead. He was gripping his hair tight, breathing hard, his cock visibly throbbing with his heart beat against his abdomen. “I wanna touch you, so fuckin' bad. Like, shit, link fingers or claw your back or fuck, I dunno, just somewhere, I gotta touch you man. Please, get off the fuckin' chair and come here?” Mickey begged, his throat raw and his eyes stinging because he was so fucking turned on that even a kiss was surely going to destroy him. He wanted it, that rush and the mind-bending release, the crash over the precipice. There was no way he could keep himself from Ian, he just couldn't do it, he needed him, he wanted him so much that he was sure he'd sob a little if Ian didn't give in.

Ian was quiet for a second or three and then he cursed again, _fuck what I said_ , the bed dipping shortly after; Mickey couldn't even find the power to smirk at his win, instead, he used whatever strength he still had to lock his legs around Ian's thighs and his hands around the guy's neck, taking Ian's beautiful bowed lips between his own and trying very hard not to devour him. Ian, sighing and moaning babble of _don't know how I thought I couldn't touch you, gotta touch you, can't not, fucking addictive little fucker, Jesus Moo_ , leaned on one hand, placing it by Mickey's neck in the pillows, and took them in hand again, only this time he really went to town, fucking into his fist and against Mickey's dick with perfect snaps of his hips.

“Fucking bruises!” Mickey swore as some protested his stretch and the light bouncing, but mostly it was cursing because he couldn't have what he wanted; passionate fucking. Ian wouldn't hurt him, not with knowing he'd bring the pain, not purposely. Mickey's ass was mottled with darkening bruises, particularly on the right side from a knee to his ass during one of his checks, and his back was sore, and he was sure his lip had just split – it was that or Ian just bitten him. “Shit,” Mickey pulled back from Ian's questioning lips to touch his own, scowling when his fingers came back a little red.

“Fuck, I'm sorry,” Ian breathed, nosing Mickey's cheek sweetly before he turned into some starving man and Mickey's neck was his buffet again, moaning and swearing into his sweating skin. Mickey quickly forgot about his displeasure and pushed his head back, tightening the muscle in his neck, stretching his skin under Ian's dragging, fever hot kisses and sharp teeth. Ian leaned to the side and pulled Mickey with him, hooking the leg he wasn't lay on a little higher up his hip, cupping Mickey's ass and teasing with his fingers. A blink and those questing fingers were in Mickey's mouth and he sucked hard on them, his libido thoroughly enjoying where this was going.

“Oh, fu-” Mickey choked and tipped his head back again, unable to do much as Ian's wet fingers breached his ass and set a shallow pace, teasing and probing more than actually finger-fucking him. Ian's mouth, open and hot and moaning out broken sins, was dancing along Mickey's throat again as the man himself brought Mickey's precipice up fast with his teasing and his wanking fist.

“Close?” Ian wondered, making out with Mickey's shoulder and neck juncture as best he could with how hard he was jolting Mickey's body. Mickey gave a harsh set of grunts and gasped out a wail.

“Yes!” Mickey hissed, throwing all concerns out of the window as he fought to control his breathing and grab a hold of Ian's face to give him messy, wet kisses. Whether he was doing a good enough job, Mickey didn't really know, but Ian was moaning and moving harder, faster and breathing so fast Mickey wasn't sure if he'd pass out or not. Mickey's fingers instinctively tightened in the soft dip of Ian's jaw hinge, around his ear, as he felt it rushing head on through his system, straight for his cock. “Oh sh- fuck. Comin', ah fuck, fuc-”

“Mickey,” Ian, devilish fucker, must know what his voice did to Mickey's name when he was switched the fuck on because he kept repeating it, so full of sin, so full of want and need and arousal, mumbling it, drawing it out into Mickey's ear as he held on tight and pushed back against those long fingers, feeling the stretch as Ian's wrist twisted. He came with drawn out groan, brokenly heaving out hot breaths while he covered Ian's hand and their skin with his release, pleased and satisfied and loving that Ian was still going and desperately at that.

“S'wet now. You like that, fucking your hand, my come as lube?” Mickey's mouth to brain filter had fucked off and he was dragging his swollen lips over Ian's jaw, looking at him like some extravagantly detailed piece of art, clawing Ian's back. Ian whispered out a _yes_ and made an encouraging sound, like he was _right there_.

“The way you make me feel, fuckin' hell, Moo,” Ian whined, his admittance so pained and full of wonder. Diving into Mickey's neck seemed to be Ian's orgasmic port of call and he buried his face in the crook, licking and biting and whimpering, his hips jerking and his body going taut, fidgeting like he really was trying to climb into Mickey's body. Mickey groaned at the sensations; his dick was hyper aware, his brain was still running on arousal, his heart was clapping and Ian's hand was wet, hot and tight, much like their core muscles. Ian came with a moan of _Mickey_ , digging his teeth in like he was grimacing in pain, not biting, not trying to stop the growl he let out, but so overwhelmed that he might suffocate if he shut his mouth, his breathing shutting off for a second. Mickey knew _that_ feeling. He felt proud that he'd managed to have Ian at that ledge, pushing him off.

Ian pulled away after a moment of catching some breath back and his face was flushed and a little stunned, but he was smiling, open and wide and cheeky too, “That felt fucking amazing.”

Mickey chuckled and pushed out a breath, stroking loose strands of hair back from Ian's face, “Yeah. Yes it was.”

“Mick, you're so wonderful,” Ian whispered, his face serious as he too, took to pushing hair from Mickey's face and ears, curious and concentrating. Mickey smiled softly and ran the tips of his fingers over the shell of Ian's ear and down his neck, cupping it and thumbing under his jaw hinge.

“Not bad yourself, you know,” he winked and Ian gave him a smile that promised he was stifling a giggle. Mickey grinned and pulled him in for soft, slow kisses, uncaring of if they were messy or bound to stick together, he was so relaxed and blissful to want to move, to have Ian move. Ian seemed to be in agreement and stretched them out so that he lay with Mickey on his side, legs entwined and hands holding on to necks and in scraggly hair, not breaking their smiling kisses or feeling-packed looks.

Mickey shifted when his lips were starting to sting again and Ian gave an apology kiss to his brow before getting up and vanishing into the bathroom. While the water ran and Ian hummed, fussing about, Mickey rolled to reach his phone, frowning when it wasn't on the bedside table. He pushed onto his shaky elbows and eyed the rest of the room, spying it on the coffee table.

Instead of firing off a text, Mickey stretched his back and hit call on Louie's contact, rolling his eyes at the contact picture of Louie biting his lip, giving a passionate though humoured double bird to the lens. The phone rang and rang and Mickey was rubbing at his nose in frustration as Louie, no matter the time, always answered his phone and he didn't have it set on voicemail unless he was due to be contacted by someone important. “Fucker,” Mickey cursed after a full two minutes of the thing ringing out the drone in his ear and hung up, pacing and wiping the edge of his mouth. Mickey was trying to work out if Louie had passed out, gone into a downward sadness spiral or had lied and gone after Jake. Shit.

Ian came wandering out, saying “These taps are fucking powerful... bath's near...” but stopped short in the arch and leaned on it, casting a worried frown in Mickey's direction, “Hey, you OK?”

Mickey glanced from the phone he was rolling in his hand to Ian's concerned face, “He ain't answerin'.”

Ian nodded, didn't need to hear who he meant, “Think he went after Jake or think he's a mess?”

“Would rather think he's gone to fuckin' sleep to be honest, but he's never, in all the time I've known him, been a heavy sleeper. Even paralytic from booze, the guy's brain still recognises the sounds that aren't supposed to be around you when you're sleepin', you know? Alarms, a door openin', smashed glass, cryin'...” Mickey rubbed his forehead and ran the hand down his face.

“Go check on him. I won't go anywhere and the bath is hot so... it's not gonna go cold. _If_ it does, it's just a tub of water, Moo. Nothing's more important than family,” Ian said and Mickey felt his spine tingle, his legs wobble just a bit. “What?”

“You call me wonderful?” Mickey asked with a laugh as he followed Ian into the bedroom, picking up his boxers as Ian snorted and ducked into the bathroom, bringing a wet cloth over, cleaning Mickey's fingers, his belly and then his phone very carefully. “Dork,” Mickey said softly, kissing Ian all over his face because he just wanted to. The feelings swimming in his chest were making him feel like feathers as he dressed quickly.

“Yah,” Ian grinned, dropped the cloth and kissed Mickey hard, holding his face, licking into his mouth and humming at the feeling. “Go check on him. I'll make something to drink.”

“Where'd you come from, huh?” Mickey asked as he put his phone down and went for the door, uncaring if he was only in sleep pants and Ian's t-shirt.

Ian smiled and opened a cupboard, “Angels are told to never state their purposes, but know that they appear when they are supposed to, not a moment sooner or later.”

“You... Jesus. I'll be a minute,” Mickey shook his head fondly and left with the imagine of Ian beaming cheekily at him burned into his eyelids. What a soft, sappy little fucker, Mickey thought as he padded his bare feet towards Louie's door, smiling despite the cheesiness of it all. He raised his fist to knock and spied the door wasn't fully shut so he pushed it gently with his fingertips and listened.

“...have no fuckin' right to yell at me about somethin' that's not even anythin' to do with you!” Jake. A very angry Jake by the sounds of it. “You call me here, sobbing, to rip me the fuck apart over a stupid, childish thing that friends do, huh? What kind of friend are you, exactly?”

“It's not my fault you were actin' like some love-struck fuckin' tart with a lad who could take it wrong, _Jacob_!” Louie was equally as pissed though he sounded a little more desperate. Mickey frowned and damn near pushed through the door and into the middle of it if only to calm them both down before someone got punched or their friendship was destroyed. He didn't. He stayed put and waited them out, hoping-

“Jacob now? Who _the fuck_ are you to dictate to me about what I can and cannot do, should or should not, that what I do and do not do is wrong or right? You are _not_ allowed to decide this shit, you aren't allowed to tell me off for anythin', Louie! You're supposed to be a close friend, and only when I'm in a place where you feel you have a valid argument for me to change my behaviour can you even dare approach me, and fuckin' nicely when you do! When have I ever behaved like this when you've been out fucking girls in random places, flirting, acting up? Never! I only ever stepped in when you were going to get fucked over or hurt, _goddamnit_ Louie, not even Mickey is like this with you and your promiscuity and he _has_ the right to be, he's your family for fuck sake, but he doesn't because he respects you and trusts you to know what you're doing!”

“You don't use him against me, asshole! I have every right to point shit out-”

“I did _nothing wrong_ , fuck, and it has fuck all to do with you so you don't! You don't have the right to call me when _you_ feel jealous over something and play it off as real hurt just to do this to me? D'you even think of anybody but yourself sometimes? D'you even think at all?!” so much for hoping. Mickey winced as Louie took in a sharp breath and he, in turn, held his.

“I'm not jealous,” Louie growled and Mickey sighed, pinching his palms to keep from moving. Yes, you are Lou. Brat.

“Then what are you exactly? Spiteful? Childish? Possessive? You think you got some kinda claim over me because we had sex?”

Jesus Christ. “I thought it meant we... well, we had a thing, like, an arrangement and I didn't wanna share that until we agreed to stop-”

Mickey jumped as something connected with something else in there, begging that it wasn't a fist to a face because then he'd have to announce himself, “I am not, and we do not have, an arrangement! The fuck, Louie, you think of me as that?” Jake's voice was low and hurt, no longer shouting, like the fight was draining out of him and it hurt Mickey's heart.

“Not you! Just, this thing-”

“You thought wrong then. Obviously. That's you all over though, isn't it? You don't fucking think before you make assumptions and open your stupid, fucking... mouth. Louie. You said so yourself, we aren't boyfriend or girlfriend so why the fuck are you behaving like this in the first place?” ouch. Louie said that? Mickey grit his teeth.

Louie was quiet for a long time and Mickey jumped when he heard footsteps coming towards him, but a very quiet _I don't want to share you with anyone_ stopped them. “I... you can't go around flirting or touching other guys in front of me, it's not fair. What am I supposed to do with that?!”

“Nothing! I'm _not_ yours, so it's got fuck all to do with you if I do or don't! _You_ made it clear, it was fun and that's all it was to you, you don't want anything else from me, and now I'm makin' this clear – it's _not_ happening again, I don't regret it at all, but it _was_ a mistake. It's not fair to me and it fucking hurts Lou, _it really hurts_. I love you man, but you're being a selfish dick who lacks the capacity to think before he speaks. You've messed with my head and I can't fuckin' deal with it any more! If you don't understand why you've hurt me, why I'm acting like this or why I can't fuckin' look at you right now, then you don't know me at all. Don't call me again, don't text me and don't knock my fucking door, Lou. I've had enough of you, so, stay outta my sight.”

No, this wasn't happening. “Louie! Fucking apologise!” Mickey snapped, shoving the door open, almost hitting Jake in the face. He curled his hand around the guy's arm and held tight, “You stay here.”

“Mickey, please don't interfere-”

“Fuck you, Jake, I've just listened to this bitch-fest and I've seen how this thing has fucked you over and I had my eyes opened earlier by Ian from watching Louie, so I'm in the middle of this crap, thanks,” he turned to pin Louie with a _yeah, I fucking know_ look and the guy shrunk. “Explain yourself before you lose your best friend.”

“You're gonna leave me?!” Louie panicked, staring at Mickey like he was about do die.

“No, not me you fuckin' idiot. Tell him Lou, 'cause I can't have this shit any more. It's painful and wreckin' the pair of you, _fuck_ , I love you both so fuckin' much and I can't watch this, I can't stand by and watch or let you tear apart years of friendship because one of you is a fuckin' coward and the other is hurtin'. You got yourselves into this bullshit mess so you get yourselves out, no running, no stupid shit, you're better than that and if I gotta referee this match, then I'll fuckin' well referee.”

“Moo-”

Mickey put his hand up and had to suck in his bottom lip to control his anger, something not missed by Louie who actually had enough about him to look ashamed of himself, “Don't you 'moo' me. Right now, you're being a total fuck, so you don't get that privilege. I've never known you behave so fuckin' ridiculously, so spiteful Lou, what the hell?! You can't try and pocket someone you will only use once in a while, man, that's cruel and you know it. So, you tell him, 'cause if you don't then nothing is gonna get sorted if your stubborn ass doesn't speak.”

Jake frowned and shifted his feet, Mickey's hand still holding him where he was, “Tell me what? The fuck is going on now?” he whined, looking every bit as frustrated as he sounded.

“Oh like you've told Ian, huh?” Louie Fael was about to lose a couple of teeth.

“The fuck you throwing that in my face for? You think that helps you? Bro, I'm gonna fuckin' rail your ass in a second, I swear to God!”

“Valid point!”

“Like fuck it is! He knows, like I know how he feels, we talk and besides that fuckin' small detail, you forget just how long I've known the guy compared to the years, _years_ Lou, that you've known this one right here, the one you're hurtin' and fuckin' messin' around! Say it or I will, 'cause at least when it's out in the open, things will be clearer for the both of you pissin' girls. Jesus fucking Christ. He doesn't judge you, he never has, even now he's not. I'm not. Nobody fuckin' cares what the fuck anyone does Lou, we just care about your goddamn happiness and your stupid ass being all right,” Mickey said, ready to clack Louie's head off a wall if he didn't listen.

Louie hung his head and stayed quiet, much to Mickey's ever burning annoyance. “Mind explaining this?” Jake asked, moving a little towards Louie, glancing between the two of them.

“You gonna speak or you gonna behave like a little boy?” Mickey wondered and got his answer when Louie shrugged up a shoulder and stared at his hands, wringing his fingers. “I get that it's scary for you, Lou, but when you behave like this and cut people up, you owe them a reason and a proper one too, not some fuckin' bullshit spite. Not when it's someone this important. C'mon, man, don't lock up.”

Louie sighed, “Not gonna change anythin'.”

“Yes it will,” Mickey said softly, letting go of Jake's arm, “I know you can't see things as clearly as you can with other people, you never have been able to, but Louie, trust me, please? What you two did changed your dynamic, it brought out something that wouldn't have surfaced had you not crossed a line when there's already so much fuckin' emotional attachment there. It's OK, Lou, it's not a one sided coin.”

“Lou?” Jake asked after a moment of Mickey watching Louie watch the floor, fighting with himself. “That true?” Mickey turned and gave Jake a softly concerned look, nothing giving away Louie's secret, but giving it away entirely. The guy wasn't dense so if Mickey had worded his nagging so that Jake could read the underlying truth of it all, then that was that wasn't it?

“ _Thanks_ , Mick,” Louie grumbled, looking far too nervous as Jake steadily crept towards him.

“Welcome fuckhead. Now, kiss and make up, let yourself be happy if you want that 'cause you deserve someone who genuinely cares about you and hasn't ever let you down. Don't think he'll start either,” Mickey said, watching a second longer and Louie tried to back out again, trying to get off the stool quick but he just wasn't fast enough; maybe he didn't want to move really, he was just being defiant, but Jake pushed his way between Louie's thighs and stared at the blond like he was seeing him for the first time, really seeing who he was.

“S'it true?” Jake mumbled and Louie, powerless to deny Jake, nodded and ducked his head to kiss him. “Daft motherfucker, it's me, _me_ Louie.”

“I know. I know,” Louie sounded like he was going to sob with how disappointed in himself he was. He decided that accepting kisses in front of his brother was a start to his forgiveness for what he'd done.

“OK, I'm off the clock,” Mickey chuckled and turned to leave. “Please don't be tearin' each other part tomorrow? Be honest with each other, 'K? As friends, you owe each other that much. Fuckin' dramatics, got a headache,” he was talking to himself mostly, trying hard not to look but looking anyway at Jake looking like everything he'd ever wanted was his now – perhaps it really was, after all the years of waiting – and Louie looking like he was frightened to death but peacefully so, like he was accepting it, because of who it was more than anything. Jake really had no idea how much power he had over that dolt, and it warmed Mickey as he shut the door and beelined for his own dork, a bath and night of safe sleeping.

 

 

Mickey woke to a body taking up half of his bed in a spread of heat and limbs, but the owner of said limbs had still, somehow, managed to have Mickey lay over one of his arms and curled against his side, Ian's nose in his hair and leg over his thighs to keep Mickey where he was. He did not have a single issue with that, not a single one.

“Any plans today?” Ian asked after they dressed quietly and carried out morning bathroom routines without a word, just soft smiles and lingering touches. Mickey sipped his coffee and checked his phone.

“I was supposed to be doing the press stint but, look at this...” he turned his phone with a raised eyebrow. The text was from Thompson and it was a garble of praise, a round-robin text to everyone, thought Mickey's name was capitalized with _even with that VC title, I don't actually need you at the tables kid, Bart and I have it covered as there's not going to be enough room with all of the other teams participating. Enjoy your day off_ with a _CC TOMORROW – YOU MAY PARTY LIKE IT'S 1999 ASSHOLES!_ To which Ian snorted and Mickey just scoffed.

“Day off, huh? Fancy doing something with me? I was going to hit the half-pipes and watch some of the last events today but, my real reason for going up there is to throw myself down a slope, Carl included I think,” Ian said, his pinky finger sticking out as he sipped from his cup, grinning at Mickey's huff of a laugh. “Wanna go skiing with me baby? I'll hold your hand, keep you steady and safe, then rip your ski-pants down and fuck you in the snow.”

“Fuckin' hell, Ian!” Mickey choked, spitting coffee down his bare chest. Ian was laughing and even Mickey's distasteful glare didn't damped the sound of the amount of joy the ginger idiot was feeling. “Serious though, you're goin' skiing?”

“Mhm. Want to come with me? Don't have to, you got your dads to think of too, and Mandy, and a possible Louie-Jake fall out. Heard anything?” Mickey had given Ian the most basic run down of his friends bust-up and make-up because he felt he should, Ian seeing things and all, but Ian had not pushed for anything at all. Mickey had willing given up basic information like they were verbally ripping each other apart and kissed and made up as Ian had undressed him with hums and steered Mickey into a hot bubble bath which Ian had, much to Mickey's protests, stayed out of, washing his shoulders and massaging his neck and head like he'd said he would. _Don't want to make your bumps worse with my gangly legs and bony knees_.

Mickey shook his head, “Nope. No news is good news, right? Dads want to go for dinner tonight, Mandy is out with a few of my team today, doing guy stuff 'cause she's an honorary dude so that leaves me entirely open for you.”

“Just how I like you,” Ian said suggestively, wriggling his eyebrows in such an over-the-top way that Mickey rolled his eyes and thunked his head off the side lightly. Jesus Christ.

 

 

“I can't fuckin' do this! Nope! No! Laters, Gallagher, I'm fuckin' out man, out!” Mickey said with heat, shaking his head and _uh-uhing_ his way across soft snow on his rental skis, trying to escape from grabbing gloves and pouts from both the Gallagher boys.

“Oh, come the fuck on, Mickey,” Ian whined, looking defeated and very much like a child, “It's not that bad and you won't get hurt. It's the snow, it makes it look bigger than it is, I swear!”

“Yeah man,” Carl piped up, digging his sticks into the snow, “We're on the baby slope anyways. They do all the teaching on this kinda size-”

“Fuckin' _baby_ slope?!” Mickey cried, yanking up his ski-visor to wide-eye the snow and wave his hands like _are you fucking kidding me, this is a baby slope, what the fuck?!_

Ian clicked his tongue and rounded on his brother, hitting him in the shin with the end of his ski, “Nice, Carl, smooth.” Carl had gotten very comfortable around Mickey in the hour of wandering they'd spent, and now, he was even more chilled which opened up his mouth a little wider. Mickey Milkovich was still respected, but _Mickey_ was an equal.

“The fuck kinda fresh hell is this? No, I'm not doin' it. I know I ain't gotta play any matches but still, I would rather fly home without a broken arm or leg or even die here 'cause I'm sure as fucking fuck that'll I'll end up going ass over head and snapping my neck. Christ!”

Ian shuffled the best he could and snagged Mickey's arm before he could bend to start unclipping his skis, “Hey, _hey_ , easy big guy. You can't take those off up here, you'll end up worse off, skidding down to the bottom anyway. You gotta keep 'em on. D'you want an instructor or are you prepared to let me guide you down?”

“Not fuckin' doin' it, man, I can't,” Mickey was desperate. He was absolutely bone-cold terrified of heights and this, this _baby_ slope looked nothing of the sort; it was the side of Everest for all he cared and there was no chance in hell he was going to ski it.

“I got you,” Ian said, curling his arm around Mickey's middle, his eyes visible through the tinted blue plexi-glass of his visor, but they were genuine even if they were odd to look at, “I won't let you fall. I won't let you slip or slide off and I promise, on all that I am, that I will _not_ let go of you. I wouldn't do that, I don't lie and I sure as hell don't wanna upset you.” _I don't want to see you panicking_. “You don't have to do this, but it's the easier option to get you back to the lifts or to the bottom without you actually breaking something. It really, really isn't as steep as it looks, I swear.”

Mickey stared down the slope and concentrated on counting the misty puffs he let out until he looked less like a rampant steam engine, “You've been doin' this for how long?”

“About ten years in total. On and off to begin with, more serious in the last five years because I had access to slopes and snow centres,” Ian admitted, Mickey watching the side of his face as he looked around and down the slope. He looked damn pretty in his ski-suit, green and black and everything covered but his nose and jaw. He'd gotten Mickey to wear black and Carl was stuck in neon pink and blue, the suit the only one in his size and they had sworn it was a male suit, despite how much Carl swore and kicked up a fuss over it.

“I'm not wearing that!”

“You will wear that because I'm fucking paying for you, otherwise you can go find something else to do, asshole.”

Mickey thought about it for a second and gave himself a little pep-talk, namely, you're 26, suck it up and do it. Once in a lifetime bullshit. “So, you know your shit?” Mickey asked softly, Ian turning to smile at him.

“I know my shit,” he confirmed, nudging Mickey with his hip. “Carl, go to the bottom, let Mick see.”

“Is he scared or somethin'?” Carl moved to get on the compacted snow and duly ignored Ian's look of disapproval.

“Remember what it felt like when you started?”

“Point. It's scary Mickey, but I didn't die so there is that!” Carl called as he pushed off and let his weight carry him down the slope.

“Sarcastic little fucker,” Mickey chuckled, “I like him.”

Ian nodded and pointed as Carl reached the bottom and tried to skid but failed miserably as he didn't have much speed on his tail at all, “See? He's done already. It really is a small slope, Moo. Trust me?”

“Shit, fuck,” Mickey felt his hands clamming up and he curled them into fists and breathed in through his nose and pushed it out through the O of his lips, “Yep.”

Ian gawked and turned, “Seriou-”

“Now, before I freak the fuck out and you have to fend off people who think I'm being murdered. Now, go, take me,” he put his hands up and waggled them, _take my hands you dork_ , clenching his jaw as Ian took them and turned so he would be going down backwards.

Ian beamed and his teeth looked stupidly sharp, gently coaxing Mickey's skis along, “Oh, I'll take you. Hey, no, look at me, not at your feet. Relax and unlock your knees. You trust me?”

“I got no choice!” Mickey croaked as he felt the snow change under him to a more slippery, compacted surface that bowed over and down. Ian frowned and Mickey sighed, licking his lips, “Sorry. I do, yeah, I trust you.”

Ian smiled and turned to look over his shoulder, weaving his legs in and out steadily as Mickey gripped his hands like a lifeline, watching Ian's soft smile when he turned back. “You remember this – a little less conversation and little more touch my body 'cause I'm so into you, into you, into you,” Ian sang, pouting and winking from what Mickey could see, smiling at the dork sashaying and being a flirt regardless of who saw him. Not like they were recognisable in their suits and hats and visors but still. It was like Ian was so free with himself and it was refreshing for Mickey to be around him, apart of that, as well as him not being concerned of who he showed off to, or who he showed off. He was damn proud and Mickey felt himself warm.

“No, uh, you'll have to sing some more to me,” Mickey teased, playing dumb. He knew that song very well thanks to Louie and Mandy and hairbrushes and drunken nights at his dads.

“Uh, how does it go... Baby, come light me up and maybe I'll let you on it!” Ian sang and his voice was strong and sassy, deep and smooth and Mickey was hooked, “A little bit dangerous, but baby that's how I want it. A little less conversation and a little more touch my body 'cause I'm so into you, into you, oh into _you_ Mickey. Got everyone watchin' us, so baby let's keep it secret, a little bit scandalous but baby don't let them see it. A little less conversation and a little more touch my body!”

“Oh my God,” Mickey giggled, eyes flashing wide when he realised it was a real fucking giggle. Ian stuck his tongue out and spun on the spot, rounding his hips and swinging his ass around and Mickey was full on laughing and smiling so much his face ached. Carl was rolling his eyes.

“How did that feel then, with dork supreme?” Carl asked and Mickey frowned, only now realising that he was at the bottom and in one piece, calm and relaxed it was all down to the dork in front of him who was now smiling at him gently.

“Like the most natural thing in the world,” Mickey mumbled and flicked his head for Ian to shuffle closer, kissing him with as much adoration he could push into it, not giving even the barest of thoughts to anyone around who might see and judge. The guy had distracted him to the point where he'd forgotten that he was even on a slope in the first place, “How did you do that?”

“I guess I swept you off your feet, hm?” Ian hummed and pushed up his visor, his eyes bright and all Mickey could see, losing himself in the greenness of them, “Wings. Angels _do_ have them, you know."

“You are such a fucking nerd,” Mickey rolled his eyes and thumbed his ear. Ian looked like such a cocky little shit that Mickey shoved him a little, pulling him back by curling his fist in the front of Ian's coat. “Don't go anywhere, Toes,” he chuckled when Ian very nearly fell on his backside, clutching at Mickey like he'd had the fright of his life. Ian swore a bit at Mickey's extra ragging and kissed him instead of trying to fight the balance, Mickey instantly stopping in favour of losing himself in Ian some more. _I'm not going anywhere_ , Ian's lips wrote. _I trust you_ , Mickey's sigh answered.

“Oh fuck me, rooms and all that shit, jeez!” Carl bitched, skiing around the pair of them like a petulant child. Mickey cracked an eye and saw the beaming smile Carl thought he was hiding. Not going anywhere.

 

_I'm so into you, I can barely breathe and all I wanna do is to fall in deep_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a mixture huh? Soft dorks. This was something sweet and whatever else to keep it going without it being a rush rush because of the last chapter being so hectic, like i said, winding it down, but it'll go up, we do have the closing ceremony and going home yet so, this is me giving you a little nice thing before i drop the anvil. 
> 
> tumblr: youknowyoutried :}


	20. Don't Let Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mickey's ignorance comes a brick wall of emotion, but it has to come down. The Closing Ceremony is a wonderland and Mickey feels like Alice, his white rabbit topped with red hair and a beautiful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So damn sorry about the time it's taken. I have been put behind because I had two kidney infections that knocked me about a bit so, here it is, at last. It's no good, just a mess of feelings and I felt like such a bastard writing this. Sorry Moo. But you gotta face it, you're going home. Shut me up, right now, oh my god, the pain. I hope you like it :} it seems rushed to me, but it's way longer than normal to make up for it and to get everything i wanted into it, but still, i had to cut it short a bit in order for the next one to be solely partying and sssseeeex ahahahahaha then more pain. fuck, i hate this. I don't wanna end it!
> 
> Warnings: emotion. That's it. Emotion. Swears too.  
> FYI: The song's used are not listed in the fic, but at the bottom in the notes because he's not using a pod thingy. If you wanna listen to any as you read, go look at the list :} I'm gonna link my Icee playlist once the last chapter is done, so if anyone ever reads it again, they have what I listened to the entire time I wrote this beast. ENJOY!

 

Mickey was happily tucking into his steak when he realised that the table had fallen eerily quiet, and not the kind of quiet that descends when everyone present is eating, no, this kind of quiet meant someone was either about to drop a tense statement or Mickey himself was being analysed while he ate, as though something was wrong with him that he was unaware of. He glanced up as he carefully put his newest slice of meat in his mouth and found that yes, it was him they were all staring at with concern smashed all over them like a glow-in-the-dark sheen.

“What? Did I stab through my fuckin' cheek or somethin'?” Mickey frowned lightly and sat back against the chair, eyes darting from his dads to Mandy unnervingly staring at him. Mickey put his steak knife down and idly tapped his fork over the fries on his plate, eyeing each of them while his free hand drummed on the table. “Out with it, for fuck sake,” he grumbled, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a gulp, idly thinking to tell the waiter that no, it did not compliment his lunch in the slightest, if anything, it made him feel real sick as it went down. But then he knew he was blaming the liquid rather than the fact that whatever the hell was going to come out of any of his family's mouths was really starting to put him on edge.

Mandy narrowed her eyes and stopped twirling her fork in the salad bowl she had, coughing lightly, skating her gaze to Dean for a second before straightening a touch and Mickey sucked in his top lip, eyebrows going up sharp. She raised one of her own and flared her nose, looking for all intents and purposes like she was about to explode and rip his ass apart, but she didn't, she merely ripped into her food and ignored his daring look. Bitch had had him flash cold for second so he didn't think twice about throwing his grilled tomato at her, grinning as it slid down her cheek. “Fucking _asshole_!” Mandy spat, wiping her face so hard with her napkin that her foundation came off and dirtied the white fabric real nice.

“Don't you dare!” Richard hissed lowly, eyebrows up quick with his known look of _I'm warning you_ as Mandy's hand hovered over her bread roll, snarling at Mickey where he smugly shifted in his place, ignoring her but ever aware of Dean sending him very fatherly vibes of _you little fucking shit, just you wait_ from where he scowled over his half-eaten meal. “Mickey?”

“Ah fuck, here it comes,” Mickey sighed to himself, lifting his sight from where he'd been eyeing the embroidered pattern on the table cloth to look at his parents sweetly, like he wasn't a twenty six year old child, “Yeah?”

“So, I know we asked last night over dinner, and yes, you dodged it like an expert but this time, don't even fucking dare it, right? We need to know you're going to be OK before we even think about leaving,” Richard said gently, watching Mickey deflate with a little wince. Yes, they had asked, and yes, he had dodged it, not even wanting to think about it. What was happening tomorrow – he was flying home, that's what. But he knew they weren't asking about his schedule or if he had a stupid fucking window seat this time or if he needed a sedative.

“I'm going to be OK, dad, promise,” Mickey said, lying through his teeth, but he said it with such exasperation that he hoped they believed it.

“Liar,” Mandy piped, looking stubborn with her arms folded and a deeply evil look on her face, though Mickey knew she wasn't actually looking like anything, that was just her normal expression. They had been blessed with a resting face that suggested murder. What a blessing indeed.

Dean shifted a little and his genuine concern had Mickey feeling, for second, like he was about to cry, “Son, be honest now, please? If you don't think you're going to be able to go through the motions easily now your situation has changed a bit, then you need to say so. I can't leave you to go through that with no contact 'cause I can't be on the end of the line with you in a goddamn plane, Mick, if something hits you, you know that. Louie can help, so can the guys, but this will be different and I think you know that. Look how you've been so far, with him being away from you or hurt... Hey, you know one of us will stay and do whatever we can so we're on the same flight, even if it means staying over another night with you or something.”

“I don't wanna think about it,” Mickey swallowed and feverishly took a hold of his wine glass, trying to distract himself from the sinking, horrid gut ripping feeling he was currently drowning in. His dad was right, it was entirely different to being scared of the flight and he had already been knocked for six when Ian had...

“It's not gonna go away, Mickey, you _have_ to think about it so we can help you,” Dean implored, desperately trying to get Mickey to face the truth and admit that he was probably going to fall to bits, all over the closest person, turn into a heart battered zombie for days. He knew it wasn't being said to upset him, not at all, but part of Mickey wondered if Dean understood just what he was doing, talking about this and treading on Mickey's panic line _real_ fucking hard.

“Kid?” Mickey looked up from his thousand yard stare into nothingness and saw just how worried his parents, and Mandy, looked. He felt sick, a real threat of losing his meal sick, his heart hammering and his breathing speeding up. He had to go home, he had no choice, and that meant leaving, which meant parting from Ian for a bit although, from what Ian had said, how long that 'bit' was, neither of them really knew as yet. What he did know was that Ian was leaving before he was due to depart and that really hurt, deep in his body. He didn't want to think, he didn't, he didn't, he wanted his brain to shut up, he wanted his heart to stop wailing, he wanted his dad's to stop looking at him like _that_ \- the stem of his glass snapped and Mickey jumped up and back, knocking the chair over as he swore down at his light blue shirt steadily turning rouge from breast to navel.

“Shit!” Mickey looked at his hand as he wiggled his fingers to rid them of glass, wondering if that was the wine or his own blood he was looking at. Someone wrapped a napkin around his fingers and squeezed as a waiter rushed forward, looking like he was the one who had shattered the glass.

“My goodness!” what a lovely shade of panic, it nearly matched Mickey's own. “Are you all right there, Sir?”

“He's fine! Have you got a back room or something?” Dean's voice was very close to Mickey's ear and he was sure that his dad's chest was pressing against his side and those were definitely Dean's practised fingers gripping his hand.

“Uh, certainly, follow me,” the waiter nodded and lead the way through all of the packed tables, the patrons staring and talking in hushed tones. _Hey! Eyes on the prize, people, just an accident! Go back to your meals and keep your noses in your own business!_ Mandy's voice carried over the whispering and Mickey had a sudden wave of pride for his sister though it vaporised with Richard's bark of _could you at least try and be a little more civilised?!_

“In here,” Mickey was pushed awkwardly through a door with Dean still holding his hand tightly, “Do you need- no, stupid question, of course you need a first aid kit. I'll be back with it momentarily, Sir.”

In the silence of what appeared to be a small break room, Dean chuckled, “I know it's his job, but honestly his politeness is hilariously endearing, bless his socks. Now, sit the fuck down, gimme your hand and talk to me.”

“No, I'll have an attack and I really don't fuckin' want one! I nearly had one just, dad, don't push me,” Mickey hissed as he was shoved into a chair and his hand forced open before he could curl it against his chest and pretend nothing was wrong. Dean gave him a very exhausted glance, raising one eyebrow up and pursing his mouth as he bent over Mickey's wrapped hand and set about taking the fabric off carefully. The door opened and the waiter smiled sheepishly as Mickey spared him a look.

“I've brought you some tepid water and a towel, too. Take your time, honestly, you'll not be disturbed in here,” the guy said, nodding when Dean landed him with a mega watt smile.

“Thank you. Who's name do I need to remember when I praise him to his manager?” Dean said distractedly, peeling away the soggy material from Mickey's sore fingers.

“Uh, you don't need to do that, Sir.”

“Who's name, kid?” Dean said, grinning up at the waiter who was shuffling towards the door to escape. “You think you're just doing what comes with looking after your guests but kid, you're going above and beyond here. Give me your name, please?”

“I'd do it, man, he has ways of wheedling information out of you- fuck, _ow_!” Mickey jumped as Dean bent his fingers open and narrowed his blue stare.

“Danny, Sir.”

“Well, Danny, thank you for your help so far and I'll be sure you mention this when I collar your manager in a while,” Dean said as he investigated the damage, “As for now, you've done all you can and I'm real thankful you thought of the water and towel.”

“I'm the first aid leader for front of house on the shift tonight, Sir,” Danny said proudly and Mickey hissed as Dean pressed the pad of his middle finger. Dean left his abusing for a minute to rifle through the green bag. “Did you need my help? You look like you know what you're doing so I am inclined to keep from interfering unless you ask for my help.”

“No, no, I got this, kid. Veteran paramedic, me, so no, you're free to go,” Dean smiled up at the guy and he bobbed his head, leaving them alone. The door hissed shut as Dean cheered to himself, pulling out a sealed packet of tweezers. “Right, no talking, so listening then... Oooh. Got some _lovely_ little shards in the creases of your fingers. Here,” Dean shoved the towel into Mickey's lap, “Bite it.”

“Dad, fuck, I play professional ice hockey. Little bit of- fuck, _fuck_ shit Jesus _Christ_!” Mickey wailed as Dean gripped his fingertips and bent his fingers back enough to open up the cuts. Totally not professional of his dad, but this was no ER and like hell was he going if Dean was willing to clean him up, even if his dad appeared to be enjoying the torture.

“What were you saying?” Dean sassed, grinning as Mickey hurled insults at him through the towel wedged in his mouth, groaning through the fuzzy fabric while Dean picked out glass carefully, rinsed his blood away with some kind of liquid fire antibacterial wash he'd dug out. “Now then, while I've got you silenced, you'll listen to me and if you dare try to run, these tweezers might just bury themselves in a finger. We're gonna try not to mention anything that'll set you off but...” Dean trailed, speaking as though he was deep in concentration and the colour of the carpet was his subject, “You feel even the slightest bit flighty, you stomp your foot. So, going home is a big thing, we all know it because of your fear of flying and confined spaces but, with your circumstances altering since you landed, and certain people being more important and possibly becoming a little bit absent for a while, you're going to hit the floor like nobody's business. Don't clench your fingers!”

Mickey frowned hard and growled as Dean picked a shard out that felt like a knife though it was barely a splinter. His dad poured the fire over his hand again and carried on muttering, the pain and the smell of medicinal things a very good distraction to focus on. “It's OK to ask for help with this, moo, nobody is gonna judge you or think less of you for it. You're falling for someone who you've learned you can trust, so far, and someone you've been leaning on. You crashed hard when you thought he was hurt, you crumbled when he went to Seoul and you spent last night without him because of Svetlana, and today is going to be hectic after the last competitor finishes, tonight a partying blur that'll hide the monster. You said he's flying out before you, so that's going to be fucking you over a little bit, in here-” Dean touched Mickey's chest briefly without looking up, “I know you're not gonna want me to say this, but it's true son, saying goodbye is going to really hurt-” Mickey stomped his foot hard and tried to pull his hand away. “Easy.”

Mickey spat the towel out and closed his eyes slowly, clenching his jaw to keep his breathing steady even though he knew it would do nothing, “Stop, please fucking stop. I can't hear this.”

“I know he lives close by, but all this medal winning is going to give you both major busy schedules and-”

“Dad!” Mickey managed to tear his hand away and went to stand, halted in his rush by Dean roping his arms around his son's middle and turning himself into some kind of human anchor. He hated Dean's rip-off-the-bandaid-approach sometimes, really, really hated it. He'd force his kids into the deep end whether they wanted it or not, it even though Mickey knew from previous drownings that the water wasn't as deep as he thought and Dean was his float, he always struggled against it even though he knew it would be OK, Dean had him.

“You have to understand what's coming, Mickey. I know you want to ignore it, pretend like nothing is going to happen but you can't lie to yourself and act like you're all roses and sunshine because it's going to be messy and I'm _trying_ to get some of this out of the way so when it does happen, you don't shut down entirely,” Dean tightened his arms as Mickey wriggled and tried to squirm out of them, “Mick! Much as it feels like you'll be cutting your heart out, the boy will still be there, at some point in the flesh, of course, and it'll be OK once the dust settles but there's this in-between bit and I can't watch you go through it, pretending you're fine while you implode. I just, I hate watching you hurt because I love you more than anything and you're my boy and... shit. Emotional! End of the line, son, can you handle it alone or-”

“No!” Mickey sobbed, hitching his breath and folding over so his nose was buried in the gel-crisped hair of his dad's crown, “No, I'm not fuckin' handling it right _now_ so watchin' him... and getting on a plane and goin' home. Packing my bag tomorrow! So stupid, but what if I never get to see him again? Or he has like, a week away and realises he wants somethin' else, huh? What if-”

“Shit, _Mickey_ , he won't, he won't,” Dean rushed, pushing so that Mickey sat back down and had his hand open again, swearing when Dean washed it clean. “I think, _think_ I got it all out, so keep it open and I'll wrap it. Small cuts _always_ fucking bleed the worst, especially the ones where you have joints or creases, but these are small and I don't think you need glue or stitches... Honey, he's not going to think anything like that and unless he's given you a good reason to think so, stop thinking so. I bet it's messing him up too, you know? Fear, that's all it is, and you won't be alone through it OK? Now I know how bad this is, I got some understanding going on. You clamming up makes it difficult so, don't give a shit if you think you're being stupid or childish, you start feeling scared or whatever, you goddamn well say something so we can help you pass through and come out the other side, right?”

Mickey nodded and calmed himself, watching Dean wrap his index and middle finger in silly little finger bandages, taping the ends down around his knuckles. He could only see FU now, the whole idea of Fuck You and the sound of 'fuh' in his head making him grin a little bit. “I love you, dad,” Mickey said quietly once Dean started packing the bag up.

“Not as much as I love you, s'why I'm making sure you take those rose-tinted glasses off 'cause they won't help you, not tomorrow,” Dean said with a smile, zipping up the bag. “Now, we have a glass to pay for and some serious bigging up needs to be done for that nice boy, Danny. You know, if Ian does-”

“Don't even go there!” Mickey rolled his eyes and took his dad by the elbow, ushering him out of the room.

“What?” Dean laughed, “You know, boy, your head-first dive into this thing with Ian reminds me of when I met Richard. I'd been through the mill with previous guys, work was tough and I was spread real thin but then, one night, some drunken idiot thinks it'd be funny to throw himself against the side of my ambulance and guess who that dickhead was? Split his nose all over his face and left a dent in the van... he came by the station to apologise a few days later, barely remembering the night and the horrendous flirting he'd unleashed.”

“You never told me this!” Mickey chuckled as they hovered by the kitchen doors, looking for Danny.

“I know, Dickie made me swear not to say but I feel it's needed now, to show you that I understand this thing you're in, that I don't think it's too fast or whatever. Sometimes, you just click with someone and there's no stopping it. Richard took me out that night, black-eyed and nose packed and such a dork, honestly. I'd never felt such adoration for someone so fast, but he was impossible for me to ignore, couldn't stop myself asking for a second date, had our third in the canteen of the hospital because I was on call and he was 'in the area'. Seriously, I think I was in love with him by the time that week was out, no lie, and I was real scared of seeing the back of him and entertaining the idea that he'd get bored and find someone else crushed me, even though nothing suggested he was even thinking anything of the sort. Don't know how he did it, worming his way into my life like he did, but I couldn't be more thankful for tequila and dares made by drunken turds in Chicago!” Dean chortled as Mickey started laughing, "It happens when it happens, son, the seed gets planted and grows, either slowly like a tree or bam, you're covered with vines. Do you love him?"  
  
"Maybe. I don't know for sure, but something's there," Mickey chuckled and Dean placed a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"All you know right now is you can't face not seeing him. One day, this whole 'he deserves better' shit will stop and you'll look at him and know he has better, with you, and that you know that if he ever went away, you'd stop breathing. I know this... You're falling for him, and I'm so fucking happy you've found him, Mick," Dean said passionately, his smile threatening to hurtle Mickey into space. Then Dean burst out laughing with a wheezed _fucking dented my ambulance_ and Mickey howled, sucking it in when a very smartly dressed man approached them with a curious look about him.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you the manager, by chance?” Dean asked, lifting up the first aid bag. The man nodded and his face opened up, clearly understanding who they were, “I have some damages to pay for and you have a member of staff you should treat, Sir.”

“The glass is nothing. If anything, I am sorry it broke on you. They should be expertly made and it was faulted so, we have had our dessert chef make something for you take with you as an apology. I would offer a complimentary meal but we all know that you would not be able to make use of it, all things considered,” the manager flicked his brows up and Dean hummed while Mickey gave a wobble off his own head in understanding.

“That's really very, _very_ kind of you Sir,” Dean smiled, not daring to correct the guy and tell him Mickey had broken it on his own. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, not when it's offering cake. “As for Danny...”

 

–

 

“Mick!” Mickey slowed his trudging and turned to smile at Louie running along the walk way towards him, skipping and twirling to avoid taking other people down. “Hey,” his friend beamed once he'd caught up, “Where's the fire?”

“As if you could fuckin' light one here,” Mickey shook his head, incredulous. Louie looked stumped for about three seconds before he barked a laugh and punched Mickey's arm hard. “Dick! What do you want?”

“You!”

Mickey rolled his eyes and took up his striding again, “Walk and talk. I was going to get changed 'cause team colours and shit. You look like you're ready to rock and roll, partner!” Mickey's thick as hell Texan drawl got him a shove from behind and a little chuckle.

“Yeah man, been ready for about an hour. Been looking for you, bro, where you been?” Louie hooked his thick, coated arm around Mickey's neck and ragged him close, kissing Mickey's head even as he fought to get free.

“Ass. Had lunch with my family 'cause they're leavin' in the earlies to fly home,” Mickey said, trying to keep the sadness he felt about it all from his voice. At least one of them was going to stay though, if they could, though neither of his dads had argued as to which of them it would be. Mickey would find out later, no doubt. Mickey's phone chimed in his pocket as Louie sighed heavily and declined to add on to what Mickey had said, as there really wasn't anything he could say. Words weren't going to cut it, not today.

_From: TT 2:12pm  
Hey stranger. I'm pretty sure I won't get to see you before the ceremony but I will find you, promise. Got some news about my schedule, something I'll tell you later, but for now, I'm really, really sorry. Wish I could see you x_

Louie jumped and started patting his own pockets rapidly, fishing out his phone as Mickey started texting out a reply. He has that sinking feeling again – schedule changes. What if it was something nice though? Yeah, maybe he was being given a week off before shit hit the fan, like Mickey was hoping was still in the race for himself. Thompson had yet to tell them any different so... “Sport's hall. C'mon, bro, you can Flash change after.”

“What? No, I'm going now!” Mickey argued, powerless against the hold Louie suddenly hit him with, pulling him off course, back towards the massive building they'd not long passed, reply to Ian forgotten in the hustle as he pocketed his phone to save it from getting dropped in the snow. Much as he swore and tried to spin out of the arms constantly grabbing him and forcing him forward, swearing blue that Louie was some kind of octopus hybrid motherfucker, Mickey found himself in the warmth of the entrance to the sports hall, frowning deeply at his parents, Mandy and Jake.

“He caught us!” Dean immediately pointed at Jake who gave a real good fake _the fuck you talking about?_ grimace.

“Whoa, Sir, I got a text that said to round up whoever I could and bring them here for a little pre-ceremony insight and pre-partying vibes. So I happened to be walking passed you guys, no big deal, that's how it is, whatever, not me, just a messenger, Jesus,” Jake put his hands up and waved them a little, backing away. Richard chuckled and Mandy laughed as the doors swung open, blasting Mickey with icy wind.

“What's it all for anyways?” Mickey asked as he followed, he wasn't shoved at all, the small group down a corridor, pulling off his gloves.

“Svetlana's idea,” Jake said over his shoulder, “The closing ceremony is on a massive rink they've been putting up for the last few days, down on the lower level, and even though the majority of the performance is going to be South Korean skaters and whatever, a lot of the competitors have been roped in. She wanted to show us a little bit, for fun, or something...” he trailed off with a shrug as he shoved the double doors open and ushered everyone into the giant hall.

Regardless of the confusion or the wonder at what the hell this was for, if it was for anything at all, Mickey soon brushed passed it when he instantly spotted Ian on the other side of the hall, spinning on roller blades like a tornado of orange and blues. “You found him!” Svetlana's cheery accent bubbled as she hopped over, looking way too excited for this random gathering, “I wanted you, is why I messaged your twin and his shadow. Everyone else, nice to see you, and you _are_ welcome, of course,” she added with a smile to Mickey's parents and Mandy, ignoring Jake's uneasy shift and Louie's cough of _I'm not here_.

“Mickey's a popular man,” Mandy teased with a wink and was totally prepared for the middle finger he shot her, sending her own back.

“Ah, but he is popular with one of my boys,” Svetlana said with a knowing smile, taking Mickey's hand quickly, “He has been sad and I wish to change this and I know you, even five minutes of you, will do wonders and because tonight is a very big deal, I must have him levelled out. Come with me - everyone else, find a seat.”

“Could have just asked him to text me?” Mickey found it really fucking hard to keep up with her hurried steps.

Svetlana spoke as fast as she walked, dodging other skaters and people whizzing about, “Ah, then he would not be surprised! I cannot give you alone time, but I can put you in his personal space for a little while and I think it will do you both some good considering the rush that will come later on with all this ceremonial bullshit and the party. And then I am cruelly removing him from your lovely presence again,” she moaned, actually sounding apologetic as she swung them around two women bickering over ribbon, “Ah, well, not me, but contractual obligations that we got emailed this morning. I am sure you have yours to attend to, though I doubt yours will take a month to get through-”

“What the- _stop_ a second!” Mickey dead-weighted his feet and pulled them to a stop, blinking and flashing real hot with that punch of information, his mouth fighting the words out, “Did you just say a month? He's leaving before me and then he's fuckin' gone for a _month_?” he hissed, panic running riot and fear beating it down. Svetlana frowned and legitimately looked worried and confused about his state.

“Your coach did not tell you about the email? It was sent to all of the coaches this morning.”

Mickey stared at her, “Do I look like he told me?!” he near yelled, barely containing his frustration, “We haven't seen him yet. Instructed to be dressed and in the lobby for three thirty.”

Svetlana opened her mouth so say something more but Ian beat her to it, “She told me seconds before I text you, I swear. I didn't want to say anything because the idea of tomorrow is already messing you up and it's fucking killing me too. I swear I was going to tell you as soon as I saw you later, I promise, because I thought it'd be cruel to just drop it on you by text.”

Mickey turned and felt his heart break with how utterly destroyed Ian looked, his eyes shining and his face drawn down. This wasn't his fault, and Mickey couldn't be angry at him for not saying. This whole nightmare was one big fucking mess and no matter how much he tried, _really_ tried, to get himself ready for it, something came and took his feet out. Ian looked scared, really scared and as though it was physically hurting him not to reach out and touch Mickey somewhere, to reassure him, to beg that it wasn't him causing this shitfest. “I ain't mad at you. It's not you, after all, just stupid fucking asshole shit fucking contracts!” Mickey cursed, running a hand through his hair while the other curled so tight his nails bit into his skin.

“If I had known, I would not have said a word. I am sorry,” Svetlana sighed, looking as agonised. “I was trying to brighten you up a bit, but it seems I have merely brought you a heavy fog. OK, so you do a little dancing, get the mood up for the others even if you feel like shit on the shoes, that is why I brought them here, well, Mickey and them by proxy,” she put her arms around both of their necks and pulled them down to her level, speaking softly, “After two songs, I will turn my back and pretend I don't see you both going outside for the twenty minutes I can spare you, to talk and slander my name,” she smiled sadly and kissed them both on the cheek, shocking Mickey a little but he gave her a tiny thankful smile as she sauntered off towards Jason, barking something at Max in Russian. It wasn't her fault either, not really.

“Mickey,” Ian's voice was loaded with sorrow and Mickey had to swallow and look at the floor for a second before it took him down to hell.

“Let's just forget I heard anythin', a'ight?” Mickey sniffed as he looked up, his brain yelling at his face to give a tiny smile, but it failed in the face of Ian's broken face, “You do what we came to see and then uh, yeah, we can talk... I guess.”

Ian reached out then and cupped Mickey's jaw, thumbing his cheek, “You do know that if I could change this, I would, right?”

Mickey gave a nod and managed that smile finally, sad as it was, “I know, man. Careers make things messy, huh?” he gave a little laugh and Ian replied with a look that said yeah, too fucking right.

“Said I wanted to be messy with you, though,” Ian said quietly, his other hand coming to rest on Mickey's nape, “I meant it. See the storm through with me?”

Mickey swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. God, Ian was so earnest and frightened that he felt his own fears slowly ebbing away, his need to make the guy feel better far stronger. He hated this sad side and very much wanted it gone, it didn't suit Ian at all, made him loathe the whole situation even more than he feared it. “Y-yeah. Of course I will,” Mickey assured him, wanting nothing more than kiss that miserable look off Ian's face.

“Gallagher! Time, yes?” Svetlana bellowed, tearing them apart; Mickey went to sit on the front row of seats, giving a shake of his head when his parents shot him worried glances, ignoring Louie pawing at his arm for some kind of insight as to what had been said to have Mickey far more upset than he had been before. It took a few moments and a lot of shouting on Svetlana's part, but the hall cleared somewhat, most of the people in there taking seats for an impromptu break, grumbling about scheduling to which the Russian coach gave a very unimpressed scowl and spat something in her native tongue.

“So,” Ian said as he skated close, “I've been dancing for most of the day by myself, apart from anyone I'm partnered with, and I really, _really_ don't want to dance by myself any more. So... who wants to dance with me?” he asked, grinning wide and eyeing everyone before his eyes landed on Mickey. Of course he would want Mickey and, as he glanced around the crowded hall, Mickey wanted to say yes but crippling anxiety got him around the neck. Ian stepped closer and offered his hand to Mickey, “Will you dance with me?”

Mickey's voice box collapsed in on itself and he knew he looked terrified, croaking out, “I don't... it's not that I don't want to, but-”

Ian put his hand on Mickey's knee and bent down so he was all Mickey could see, his honest eyes and soft smile, “Hey, it's OK if you'd rather not, I get it, promise.” Mickey wanted to take this guy away from all of this, tuck him away in a secluded corner and kiss him until neither of them could cooperate any more, until words dried up and all that was left was the feeling of what they were sharing was, consuming and warm and everywhere and all they needed. Ian gave a tiny wink and stood up, breathing in audibly as he scanned the others, pointing at one of them though Mickey didn't look at who, too busy watching the side of Ian's face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his eyes seemed to become more almond-shaped, how a tiny curl of his red hair was trying to sneak free of the product that held it in style, “You then. You can dance right?”

“Yeah. Yeah I can dance,” Mickey turned at the sound of Jake's soft voice, half expecting to hear Louie roaring with excitement over being picked. Louie was always game to dance, but Mickey also knew that Ian intimidated the guy a little with how he moved and when Mickey turned in his seat to look at his best friend, he found Louie looking as surprised by this as he was, Jake taking off his jacket before following Ian away from the seating and into some space.

Ian said something and Jake nodded, listening intently. “Hey, uh, you mind if we dance together?” Ian asked, turning to look at Mickey, his question aimed at Louie more than anyone although only Mickey could really tell.

Louie didn't dare answer so Mickey put his hands out in a _go ahead_ gesture and sat back comfortably, genuinely interested in this, “Not at all.” He smiled at Ian's bright one, at Jake's timid appearance; the guy could dance pretty well if given the chance, but he looked extremely nervous and Mickey couldn't blame him as the entire hall was looking at him, professional dancers and skaters and important personnel with their peepers on him.

Dean turned to look at his son and gave some kind of down-pulled smile, weird ass expression of _I have no idea what the fuck is going on but ooh I'm a little excited by this._

“If you'd rather dance with a girl?” Ian said a little loud, but then maybe not, the hall was deathly silent as Svetlana fussed over the sound system in the corner, swearing at it.

“Might be easier,” Jake chuckled, stuffing his hands into his tracksuit pockets, trying to hide behind the collar of his polo-shirt.

“Mandy?”

Mandy barked a laugh and waved her hand defiantly, “Hah, fuck no. No offence! It's just... only dancing I do for an audience is salsa. Sorry Jake!” Jake bobbed his head and grinned, Ian pointing at Mandy in a _I'll remember that_ kind of way that had her cackling shut right down.

“I'll dance with you, beautiful,” said one of the female dancers, or skater, Mickey wasn't sure which without skates in the mix. She bumbled down from the row she had been in in the other stand and wandered over sweetly, a head shorter than Jake but confident, taking Jake's hand without waiting for him to say if he was accepting her volunteering or not. He smiled though, saying something that nobody could hear and she rolled her eyes and gave him a playful shove. Louie went a little rigid next to Mickey. Ian waved at the same area and another girl came over, shorter than Ian, though near everyone on the planet was shorter than him, a tight bun on her head, some kind of 80's flash dance get up on; leggings under a leotard, leg warmers, a stupid sash around her middle. Mickey didn't like her. He could understand Louie's vile looking scowl now.

“We do Don't Need No Money first!” Svetlana shouted and Ian nodded, taking the girl's hand and moving away from Jake a little with a chuckle at his terrified face.

Music started up then, something very upbeat and fucking loud, making everyone in Mickey's little line jump, Richard actually placing his hand over his heart for a second. Ian and his partner started something up off the bat, like they'd known it was coming, though dancing was a part of life for Ian and these dancers so it was probably instinctive to move the second they heard a beat of any kind. Jake looked like a fish out of water, pretty much standing stock still as his partner twirled around him, touching his face gently, trying to coax him into moving. Mickey's hand shot out and grabbed Louie's knee to stop it bouncing and leant in close to his ear. “Stop it,” Mickey warned.

“This not bothering you?” Louie hissed, shifting like he was near ready to jump up and punch the woman.

“No. It's dancing for fuck sake, it's what they do,” Mickey said, “Chill out before I take you outside and tan your ass.”

“But she's touching him!” Louie groaned, rubbing his hands on his thighs quickly, “Don't like it.”

Mickey kept his voice low enough to grumble, “He's gay, Lou, and it's dancing. Just 'cause you touch him with meaning don't mean everyone else fuckin' does, Jesus.”

“He doesn't like it, look at him,” Louie was still whining so Mickey shook his head and pinched the guy's leg, _shut up_ , which seemed to stop him but not before he gave Mickey a very betrayed look. “Supposed to be on my side, bro.”

“Fuck sides when you're being a little bitch,” Mickey said, “Even if he _was_ your boyfriend or whatever, you don't go being all... visibly jealous like this. See me doing it? No, exactly. Grow up, man, Christ. What you gonna do when if he starts dancin' with Ian?”

“Well...” Louie shifted and seemed to think, if only for a second, “I trust him. Don't fuckin' trust her though.”

“Holy fuck,” Mickey rubbed over his face and decided that ignoring petulant blond's would be better than indulging their behaviour any longer. Ian was laughing as he spun his partner on the spot, thoroughly enjoying himself while Jake had taken to moving his waist at last, smiling as his partner danced around him, waving her arms like she was trying to get him more comfortable, to move more, laughing at him.

The music stopped and Svetlana shouted, “OK, that was cute but time to show them what you've been sneaking away to do since before we left for Seoul. No more silly business! We're on the clock!” over the clapping. Mickey frowned and Jake turned from looking at the coach to grin at them all. What was this? Sketchy is what it was.

“Huh?” Mandy supplied as the girls went to put roller blades on, bringing Jake a pair.

“Mr Brooker is going to be performing with my dancers tonight,” Svetlana said, as though this information was nothing at all, “I asked him, he said yes. Would have asked your brother but Ian said that Mickey can't dance. Mr Fael, I would have asked you had I not thought that you'd turn it into some kind of pornographical show.”

“Hey!” Louie looked offended but the teasing grin Mickey was close enough to see said otherwise. “Can't dance on ice skates anyways. Didn't know you could though, Brooker,” the last name usage wasn't spiteful at least, Mickey was thankful for that, Louie faking anything more than friendship in the face of everyone present. Jake still raised an eyebrow though.

“It started as me filling in for a sick pianist but, uh, during a rehearsal, she caught me dancing when I thought nobody was in the hall. She's real hard to say no to and uh, yeah. Thompson knows, but that's it. Had to keep it all a secret, you know?” Jake said and Ian clapped him on the back.

“Can keep secrets, man, had no idea you'd even been sneaking out,” Louie muttered to which Mickey nodded. Not a clue either.

“He's a good dancer!” he laughed breathlessly, looking at them all but catching Mickey's eye enough that he knew Ian was talking to him even if the rest of the hall didn't, “See, this is what I've been doing. I know I said training like, a billion times, and I guess it is, just couldn't say what. You'll see more later, of course, but for now, Jake's been wanting to show off since last night and Lana thought we could show you one thing, get the party mood going or some shit.”

“It is not shit!” Svetlana snapped, folding her arms, “It is exciting times, big ceremony and celebrations of your wins and everybody participating. Screw me for wanting to have you all smiling and feeling good about this all things considered, my God, I am such a bitch!” sarcasm was ripe with this one, Mickey thought, chuckling at her.

“So, that whole thing then was what? Warm up?” Dean asked, humming when Ian and Jake nodded, “Was good. Ah, I really like this, I'm getting all excited!”

“Oh God,” Richard moaned, “You understand that I'm going to be babysitting a proud and super excited middle aged child for the rest of today, right? Your fault. You're all on my shit list.”

“What about the rest of them team?” Dean suddenly burst out, leaning his elbows on his knees, “Do they know? Oh! Are they involved?!”

“Hah, no, no,” Ian waved off Dean's pout, “Like he said, nobody knew. They still don't. We had toyed with the idea of having a figure skater V hockey sketch but that'd end in tears. Besides, they had all been too busy and Thompson was real hard to convince when it came to just one of his guys helping us out. I think they'll be pleasantly surprised later.”

“They're gonna go fuckin' nuts over this,” Mickey chuckled, “Seriously. They went berserk over you winning for the home team, so, seeing one of our boys doing something as part of the closing ceremony is goin' set them off. Jesus, s'like addin' gas to a fire.”

Louie laughed and slapped his knee, “Oh my God! Was this your plan, Svet? Set off the hockey team and hope all else follow?”

“Yes!” Svetlana agreed, “You are like some kind of circus, like excited children. It is annoyingly contagious. Other than that fact, I needed a pianist and a different dancer for Ian and after I caught him and hounded the boy into agreeing, we did some practice steps and Jacob fit perfectly with him. Is hard to find a strong partner who is not used to dancing only with girls and does not find dancing with a man something mentally scarring. Bunch of babies!”

“Hey!” Max and Jason chorused.

“You are weaklings, not babies. You could not lift Ian on bare feet and you know this,” she pulled up her eyebrow and dared them to argue, both men nodding and agreeing after a second. _Lift_ Ian? “Enough chitting and chatting now, do this dance and you have that break. Jacob, if hockey is not for you, I have you.”

“This'll be easier now we're all on wheels,” Ian said, bashful as his dance partner rolled around him, “Sorry if I uh, got your toes before, Umi.”

“You didn't, don't worry!” she snorted, shoving him. Mickey found it endearing, flushing a little when she turned to see who Ian was trying not to smile at. She didn't comment, but her knowing grin still had Mickey sitting on glass.

“You all like this one,” Svetlana said to the room, grinning as the other occupants started cheering, “Yes, yes. You have enjoyed this too much. Hopefully the rest of the Village will too, maybe even the world, eh?”

“They'll love it, Lana!” someone shouted.

Someone else wolf whistled, “Love is love!”

“Oh!” Dean chirped, “ _Oh,_ please?”

Mandy clapped a little, excited, “You think it's-”

“Better fucking be now, else he's going to cry,” Richard chuckled, hooking his husband around the neck to ruff his hair and kiss his cheek. Mickey frowned and watched as Ian curled his arm around Umi, holding her tight and close like a lover, her back against his chest with their right legs cocked on the rubber stopper of their boots while Jake mimicked him with his partner a distance away, completely confident now. Louie held Mickey's hand – this was going to be something then, if he was preparing himself, or maybe his friend was just keeping himself from flying out of his seat to remove that girl from Jake's space. Love is love? Where had he heard that before? It meant something. Mickey gave Louie's hand a squeeze and turned to see Louie biting his fingers.

“Calm down.”

“It's Ian. Look at him, s'gonna be another dream bro, can't cope with his subliminal dancing and you know it. I'm gonna ascend!” Louie breathed, visibly preparing himself with slow breaths and licks of his lips. Dear fucking God, this one was something else. Mickey rolled his eyes and linked their fingers tight, shifting so he was slumped a little, knees out. Ian's eyes flashed from where he had been staring at the floor at the movement and gave a cheeky little flash of a smile at Mickey. Mickey popped an eyebrow and put his free hand to his mouth to hide his smirk.

“Fucking machine!” came Svetlana's growl before she thumped it and it started up on something she clearly didn't want, rapid Russian flying through the chords. She paused it and turned to give Ian and Jake a nod, pressing the button a little harder than needed and then it started; with the first note, Mickey recognised the song and wondered how this was going to play out with how Ian and Jake started dancing slowly.

 

_Crashing, hit a wall_

_Right now I need a miracle_

_Hurry up now, I need a miracle_

Ian spun Umi out and rolled off with her, holding her hand, spinning her every other few feet, Jake still where he was, his partner gliding around him and touching him like she agonised by how she felt, Jake looking as equal in the feeling, hands in his hair and his legs wide apart. Mickey didn't know which pair to watch, catching Ian as the bridge sped in, lifting Umi so she was forcing her hands down into his, legs out wide, back to his chest again as they spun around Jake who followed them with a sad gaze, his partner acting as though she was betrayed and went to move away, only for him to snag her back as the chorus fell in and dip her, hand sneaking up her thigh and side. Louie's hand tightened and Mickey chuckled into the noise, eyes on Ian skating backwards with Umi chasing him, arms waving around poetically. Jake finally moved as the chorus bled out and shot off with his partner, mirroring Ian perfectly, skating around like he wasn't some massive ass hockey player who smashed the fuck out of people for a living.

_Running out of time_

_I really thought you were on my side_

_But now there's nobody by my side_

The bridge had Ian looping around and he passed Jake, watching him while Umi played at trying to get his attention back, Jake looking up from his partner in his arms. Ian doubled back on a dime and spun Umi repeatedly as Jake did the same with the girl he had, a dizzying speed, and as the chorus landed again, both men let go of their partners hands and let them spin out, colliding with one another instead, a hand curling around each waist for a second as they twirled before letting go, gliding around one another in a mash of twirls and spins, so close they could touch but they didn't, and Mickey shot up in his seat as Louie did the same, Dean clapping like he was going to burst from excitement. _Holy shit_. This was clearly a dance about boys being in love, and Mickey would be lying if he said that seeing Ian look so haunted by Jake didn't make him feel a tiny touch jealous, though he ignored it because it meant nothing, he knew that. He wished he wasn't so damn chicken because that could be him doing that in Jake's place instead of watching Ian turn from Jake only for Jake to snatch his hand and pull him close as the chorus ran out again, spinning them fast in a circular motion, Ian's head rolling like he was fighting the pull of the man he was with, Jake letting him spin from his hold as the music slowed a bit.

“Fuck,” Mickey cursed, on the edge of his seat as the music sped and Ian took Jake's hands and gave this tiny, barely there smile before he was lifted in the same manner that he had lifted Umi, Jake's arms bulging as he skated backwards and spun them twice before letting Ian down, turning the skater so he faced Jake, dipping him and taking them in a swooping arch, pressed so tight together before Ian span out in flurry. Mickey felt a little dizzy and his heart was hammering, entranced by this poetic movement and his hand was aching from the grip Louie had on him. The bridge came in again and it was like some kind of emotional explosion as Jake chased Ian down and kept grabbing him, trying to hold him, but Ian kept throwing him off by curling out of his hold, turning from facing forwards to facing his shadow, to facing the front again, arms moving constantly and then pushed hard into a jump, gliding out as Jake spun with one leg straight out before he stopped where he was in the middle, looking hurt because Ian was out of his reach. Ian turned and came close, slowly, like he was sorry for teasing, twirling around Jake once more as the song started winding to its end, Ian lifting Jake's chin and the final note came with Ian in Jake's arms, a hand on his cheek while they gazed at one another. That was both painful to watch and extremely beautiful, so fast paced and energetic even though it was emotion in motion and it seemed that, even for those who had already seen this, it had stunted everyone's speech.

“Christ,” Dean breathed after a moment, his hand sneaking up to curl around his son's neck, leaning their heads close together, “That boy... he's _yours_.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey had nothing in his vocabulary bank, nothing that could convey just how much Ian meant to him, right then, looking at Mickey as he untangled himself from Jake and his happy laughing, both breathing hard and looking pleased with what they had done. The hall erupted as Jake sheepishly rubbed his neck, nodding and bowing like an idiot at their cheering and yelling. Louie was silent, his hand still crushing Mickey's tendons and bones.

“I say it again: you come to me if you don't want hockey any more,” Svetlana grinned as the stands started emptying and the others came down to congratulate or go back to what they had been doing before, ruffling Jake's dark head fondly once she was close enough to him. “You are not bad for a bulldozer. Beautiful boy!” she laughed, kissing Jake's cheek hard as he ducked his head and tried to hide. Ian still hadn't stopped looking at Mickey, no matter who ragged him or said their _well done_ 's, no matter if anyone got in the way, his eyes didn't move off their target.

“Goddamn,” Louie groaned, shifting and finally uncurling his fingers from Mickey's, “God fuckin' damn.”

“What's up?” Mickey managed, not looking away from his green-eyed wonder.

“I wanna kiss him. Real bad,” Louie sounded like he was in pain and it made Mickey laugh a little, his voice quiet and whimpery.

Ian broke their gaze to talk to Umi for a moment so Mickey stretched and turned to Louie, snorting at his friend all crumpled in his seat, looking like he was ill or something, “So go kiss him.”

“Are you mental?” Louie said, taking his hand from his face to eye Mickey like he was Satan, “No, man.”

“Don't act like it's some big deal, Lou-”

“Go kiss Ian then, huh? In a hall packed full of people, people who don't know about you, people who will spread words that'll come back to bite your ass like a dog. Ain't ready for that shit, barely even understand this fuckin' situation myself, thanks,” Louie grouched, his point valid if Mickey was honest. “Sorry, didn't mean to bitch.”

“S'OK, Lou, shit's new and scary, kinda like a ball and chain around your neck. You wanna do all the things everyone gets to, but you can't, not yet, not until you can get the lock picked,” Mickey said softly, understanding it all but still, frustrated to high hell by it. Louie gave him a sad smile and his well known _I know right?_ look, sighing and turning to look at Jake. Fuck, the look on his face crushed Mickey a bit, blatant want and adoration written in every cell and pain in his wet eyes.

“Hey,” Ian's breathy voice pulled Mickey's rapt attention from Louie and he blinked up at the guy towering over him. “Come with me?” Ian asked, putting a hand out for Mickey to take. Fuck anyone who saw Mickey take it like it was the hand of Zeus, trotting after Ian rolling towards the doors that lead to the changing rooms. So they had, so far, kept their budding relationship somewhat secret, and doing things like this would only bring questions to people's gossiping mouths but Mickey couldn't give a care to it, not now, not with tomorrow looming over them like a grim reaper. He was proud of Ian, and of being with him, and maybe, at some point, he could get passed the PDA stigma that hounded them because they were guys and just bash it with a bat, kiss the guy in a crowded place and enjoy the feeling it hit him with, swim in happy eyes and smiles.

“That was something else, man,” Mickey said once they were away from the noise and prying eyes, the sound of Ian's wheels dull on the carpeted floor of the corridor. The skater smiled sweetly, looking from under his lashes as he went to push a door open but Mickey tugged his hand to stop him.

“Someone _will_ see what's about to be unleashed on your gorgeous mouth if you don't come in here with me,” Ian warned with a grin but Mickey stood his ground and moved them into the middle of the corridor, placing them in plain sight if anything. It was private, but not, and he didn't care at all. It wasn't like they were out in the hall, but if anyone looked, they'd know. Mickey wanted that, he wanted them to know without having to plant it right in front of them. “Moo?”

“Don't care, Ian, I don't mind,” Mickey shook his head a little, looking up at Ian with what he hoped was open honesty, clear to read and understand. “Kissed you on the slope yesterday, remember?”

“Yeah, but they didn't know who we were and this lot do. Are you sure you're OK with that? If someone sees-”

“Let them see.”

Ian frowned a little, like he was fighting with himself, “But... if someone spreads this, us, around and it... I don't want you getting hurt or upset by what might come from it.”

Mickey licked in his bottom lip and nibbled it, making a sound that said he knew, he got that. “Might get messy, huh?” he teased, Ian seeing his meaning straight away, “I want this. We ain't hiding anything but we want privacy, you know?”

Ian hummed and got on his knees so he wasn't under threat of rolling over, looking up at Mickey with gentle eyes, “Can I?” can I kiss you. Seriously, this one. Mickey groaned and dipped the distance down, kissing Ian, enjoying the sharp intake the skater took, his arms wrapping around Mickey's lower back, tugging him closer while Mickey cupped his head and kissed him with all the emotion he could. So taken by this guy kneeling at his feet, and Ian completely wrapped in kissing Mickey slowly, like he could do it for the rest of his life and letting out tiny little noises of pleasure, they pulled apart a mere millimetre to turn their eyes at the sound of a throat clearing, barely moving anything else.

“Sorry but uh, Thompson just called Lou so, ah, we have to go Mick,” Jake said with an apologetic quirk of his mouth. Fuck the universe.

“Oh,” Ian let out sadly, making to move but Mickey tightening his hands around his skull stopped him.

“Turn away,” Mickey growled at Jake, his face kind though so the guy didn't think he was mad at _him_ , just everything else. Jake put his hands up and turned, plugging his ears to ward off the noise of kisses and the primal rumble that came out of Ian, his kiss desperate and needy. Mickey gave as good as he got, licking and biting and whispering _don't wanna go_ and _see you later_ and _talking is overrated_ with every tiny break he made, pulling back as Ian breathed _I hate this_ into his mouth. “Not as much as I do,” Mickey answered, putting their foreheads together for a second before he removed himself, taking a deep breath.

“I'll find you later, I swear I will. We'll talk and work this bullshit out, I promise,” Ian swore passionately as he stood carefully, “Don't want this, I don't. I hate it, I hate it, god-”

“Hey,” Mickey was a little thrown by Ian's fever hot statements, taking the guy's hand, “It's all right. Well, it's fuckin' not, not by a long shot, but... forget it for now. Not happening today, so be like me and ignore it until we can't 'cause you got a lot to do today, 'K?”

“Yeah. Yeah OK,” Ian gave him a quick kiss and rolled away. Jake turned then and dropped his hands, wincing.

“Sorry guys,” he said, yelling out as Mickey got close enough to land a corkscrew to his bicep, “Shit! I said sorry!”

“That's for the ass grab you did during your dance. Oh, you thought I didn't see that? Wandering fingers, Brooker, keep 'em secure or I'm gonna break the fuckers,” he taunted to Jake's scandalised look. Ian shrugged and grinned, pushing the doors open with a little wave as he drifted off to Svetlana. Mickey's heart ached as he followed Jake and his cursing, his apologising, his sad look.

“You'll be all right,” Jake said to him on their way out. Mickey nodded, pulling on his gloves. He knew they would be, but it didn't feel like it, not right now. It felt like this was it, they'd never see one another again, that it was all some kind of sick joke some motherfucker of a deity had cooked up for their twisted enjoyment.

“Hey, mind I if tag on, come see your room, raid the hidden fridge?” Mandy appeared as Mickey started his trudging up the hill again, shrugging.

“What do you want really?” he wondered, following Jake's longer strides.

“Fuck, OK, so I'm worried about you and regardless of which papa is staying with you, I won't be and I guess I'm just... I don't like you upset and I kinda don't wanna leave you alone? Sisterly crap, I know, but you'd do the same,” Mandy bumped their shoulders and Mickey couldn't find it in himself to argue that it was stupid, he was fine, because why bother? It was pretty fucking clear he wasn't so, he smiled at her and put his arm around his waist.

“Asshole. You can come see my room,” he smiled, then he warped his face into sarcastic seriousness, eyebrows peaking on his forehead, “Touch my stuff and I'll throw you out the window.”

“Ian won't be there though?”

“Fucking bitch!” Mickey laughed, shoving her into Jake while she cackled and groped the guy's ass hard enough to have him hopping away with a cursed out _Milkovich bastards!_

 

–

 

Having missed out on the Opening Ceremony, Mickey had no idea if this one was more or less extravagant but he was pretty amazed by it. The football pitch sized rink they'd put up with seating and a domed roof was nothing short of amazing on its own but the decorations and every competing nations flag hanging from the roof, the lighting, the music and elated atmosphere was astounding. He hadn't yet managed to close his mouth.

“Man, this is fucking amazing,” Louie gushed for about the hundredth time since they'd sat down after being announced. Jake was sitting two rows in front of them in the aisle seat as per Svetlana's instruction, agitatedly waiting to be pulled from where he was to take part. Not that they had had much time to be without someone around, but Louie, as far as Mickey had seen, had barely looked at the guy let alone spoken to him. All he could think was _not this shit again_ as Jake turned to look up at them, frowning like Mickey when Louie twisted in his seat to pretend like whoever was behind them had started talking to him. Idiot.

Declining to say anything that would no doubt start a bitch-fest or a whining hour, Mickey settled back and held Mandy's hand, focussing on the gorgeous display of frozen arts that was dancing and moving all over the ice to some mesmerizing music. His dads were sitting three rows down from Jake, but Mandy had convinced Bart to switch seats with her, something he gave up without argument, and sweetly at that. Thompson didn't care much either, stating that it really didn't matter, not after Richard had had some hushed words with his coach. Telling him about Mickey's emotional upset, more than likely, and Thompson was nothing if he wasn't caring and understanding underneath that brash shell he wore.

“Shit's gonna get real,” Louie said into Mickey's ear. When all Mickey could do with that was scowl and frown at him, Louie nodded forward, “Lynn just left.”

“Oh, so you _did_ see him,” Mickey drawled, shoving Louie back a bit, “Fuckin' stop messin' with him and yeah, I know I said I fuckin' understood your predicament, but come the fuck on Louie, he's a person, not a fuckin' Lalaloopsy doll!”

“Ain't done anything!”

“Liar,” Mickey hissed, yanking Louie close, “I leave with Ian for five seconds, I come back and you're gone, Jake's looking a bit lost and since then, you can't even look at him! What did you do?” Louie tried to look seriously offended but gave it up after a second of Mickey red hot glaring, “Please, for the love of God, you did not say somethin' nasty again!”

“No, no... I uh...”

The stammering, the cuff picking, the flushed cheeks and avoiding glances – he'd gone and royally messed up again, and all Mickey could think was with some sort of Louie-esque mind fuckery. Had he kissed Jake? Had he kissed someone else? Oh, maybe he had- “Fuck, you didn't.”

“No! I haven't done _anything_! I just... I'm messed up over this and you know what I'm fuckin' like, I get scared, I push people away and shit... 'cept this time, it's just one person.”

Mickey gave him a pitied frown and though he totally understood Louie and his ways, he was still being a dick so he punched his thigh real hard, saying “so fuckin' stop it” as Louie squealed. “Listen to me now. It's far kinder to cut and run rather than to drag him along when there's chance that, by the end of it, you don't want him like he wants you. Give him a fuckin' chance to be happy, Lou, even if it means without you.”

“No, no that's not fair to me then!”

“So be with him!” Mickey snapped back.

“It's not that fuckin' easy, bro,” Louie clenched his jaw as some kinda deafening drum-roll sounded and Mickey's attention was taken from burning holes into Louie's dumb fucking head by Mandy gripping his fingers in excitement. An announcement was made over the com-system in a variety of Languages, Mickey just about hearing that this was a show put on by the competing skaters who had won medals, other participants and some ice skating school from South Korea. The first thing he could see was a very elegantly dressed man wandering across a carpet that was being taken away, piece after piece as he walked over them under a spot light.

“Shit, is that Jake?” Mandy hushed and Mickey peered as much as he could, thankfully being close enough to see detail. A grand piano was in the middle of the rink to which the man was heading towards in a coat-tailed suit, sparkling a little on his lapels and tie. He had a mask over his eyes but yeah, that was definitely Jake, extremely confident and straight backed. He stood at the piano and took a light bow, waving before seating himself and putting on white gloves. To hear Jake play the piano was always a treat though he didn't manage to get near one very often, but when he did, he slayed on the thing. He'd been playing it since he was five and it showed, he knew what he was doing and Mickey, watching the guy crack his knuckles and rolled his neck a bit, couldn't fucking wait to hear this. He gave a nod and started playing and Mickey shivered from head to toe with the notes – Power of Love. It would be, wouldn't it?

“Oh God,” he breathed, Ian appearing at the far end under a light as a woman began to sing, violins from the band on the elevated plinth on the other end lighting up as they played, Ian carrying out his routine without missing a beat, dressed in a white suit and Christ, it was like the first time all over again. He flew around his extra space with confidence, around Jake and the piano, arms wide and legs carrying him as though he really was gliding on air. The light was done in such a way that Ian's skates weren't so visible and his face shaded which only added to the agony he was trying to get across, every swoop and twirl done slowly and once again, Mickey found himself wondering if this kind of thing should be public, it seemed so personal and solitary and so heartbreakingly beautiful that it was easy to forget just what a dork Ian really was, and that he was as big as he was, so flawlessly smooth was his footwork and body movements, his jumps orchestrated like it was nothing more than a hop to the guy.

As the final chorus came in, the band came to life, adding deep tones as fireworks went off around the back wall and Louie's hand came down on Mickey's thigh like a hammer, gripping as they both sat forward and gaped at Ian really going for it with his body-throwing loops and spins, his super fast twirling around and around and his ribbon-like body simply hypnotising the hell out of them. So some of his elements were different but it was still awesome to watch and knowing this was only the first routine only made Mickey more excited, wanting to cement his ass in the chair and hit a repeat button. The music ended and they were given no time to praise the guy as he bowed and flew away under darkness, Jake starting up a beautiful piece of music within seconds, a very tall, broad male skater taking his female partner around the rink, dancing to match the beautiful chords. Mickey had seen Ice Dancing on the run through on the TV, he'd seen it once or twice before too, and it really was pretty to watch, soon losing himself in following the pair gliding and moving like they weren't being watched by thousands of eyes. Mandy's grip tightened every now and then, like she was as lost, Louie coming to lean against Mickey's side, completely taken by what he was watching. He always did love watching ice skating, dancing or not, so Mickey forgave his glassy eyes and cavernous gaping.

Another song started up and it was a mixture of instruments, none of which were a piano so Jake had been lit up in the colours of the Olympic rings, sitting perfectly still as every dancing skater in the Games came out and edged the rink, Ian included, his fiery hair standing out under his spotlight like some kind of beacon for Mickey's eyes. They twirled and moved in tandem while a large group used Jake like a centring pole, moving around him. As far as Mickey could tell, these were the synchronised groups who'd won something, but more than anything, he had a headache blooming from trying to watch everything without missing anything but it was damn hard to keep up. The music blended into something else entirely as the groups drifted and split, Mickey diligently trying his damnedest to keep Ian in sight and it helped that he was one of five lit up still, moving in sweeping lines to the middle, forming a star around the piano. Going from orchestrated music to dance music was a dive in the deep end but it worked, if only for the fact that the whole thing was dazzling, and Jake playing the starting notes to Faded before he was dumped in darkness and the whole area pitch, five white suits the only lights around. Mickey was instantly reminded of when he'd last heard this bellowing music and he felt a tiny bit sick, focussing on the hands holding his, on watching something beautifully weird to replace that memory with.

When watching something that held attention like this was, it was easy to forget time for a minute and Mickey was frowning every so many as the songs changed, wondering how the hell it bled away so quick. It was clearly becoming something fun rather than emotional now as all of the male skaters on the ice lined up and started up to an age old song that Mickey hadn't heard in years. It was quite funny to watch them behaving like idiots, playfully shoving at whoever was closest until a beat hit and they all turned into Neo Anderson before speeding up and performing expert choreography, feet kicking out, body popping in sync and spinning from left to right, around the next guy like he wasn't there. It was humorous with some of their faces being put on a large screen, cheeky winks and shocked chuckles, but it was also really upbeat and catchy.

_Got me drowning, in a river of this cold running fever, hey hey!_

The lights dropped and left only the white suits visible, the two on the end moving together, then pointing at the next two before they in turn, motioned to Ian in the middle who swung his arms out and they bent backwards like he'd thrown out some shock wave, touching all over his body, his face on the big screen, looking flustered and warm and candid, like he was doing fucking burlesque with his cheeky as hell face and wide eyes. He had coal around his wonderful eyes and his lips had been painted bright red with dark edging. Mickey was certain his mouth was hanging wide open as Ian took off and all the spotlights lit up again, the skaters blending in and around one another like fireflies on speed.

“This is crazy,” Louie summarized when it was the female skaters turn to put on a show, dancing to a Calvin Harris track, Louie entranced once more no matter how much Mickey stared at him. Mickey found it fascinating, but he wasn't that interested in them at all, craning his neck to catch sight of Ian but with all the edges hidden in darkness, he had no chance. He did, however, spot Jake waiting to go back on the ice again. When had he left? Mickey felt like Alice all of a sudden, waiting for his white rabbit to reappear. 

Lights all over the band took everyone's attention off the now darkened rink for a while as they played and a solitary lady danced under them in a small space on the ice, beautiful and serene and so gentle that Mandy was near crawling out of her seat with how much she was into it. Mickey squeezed her hand and got one back though Mandy didn't tear her eyes away, chewing her thumb tip. The crowd roared for as long as they could when they stopped playing and quietened so fast, it was like they weren't everywhere, two pairs standing on the rink, ready and waiting. It was happening and Mickey was the one getting his hand squeezed by Mandy now, Louie's so tight Mickey was worried about his cuts for a second but he didn't remove his crushed fingers, his friend was clearly freaking out in the dark.

Ian held Umi tight, the whole set up entirely different now they were dressed to impress and not showing off but performing. Jake was dressed in white too, both masked, the girls in pretty, flowing dresses and not a leg warmer in sight, glittering lace and lycra. The music started and they were off, Mickey's eyes following only Ian this time, the guy acting up a storm and surprising him with a synced jump with his partner as the chorus landed, Jake not holding his partner like before but lifting her to scissor in the air, hugging her close and then watching Ian, his spotlight turning blue, his face on the screen pained. He stayed under a blue light, dance-fighting with his partner while Ian threw him glances, more so than before, ignoring Umi turning his face towards her. And when they collided, off went some more fireworks and Mickey jumped with how hard Louie tugged on his hand, nearly tearing his eyes off the pair as they acted out wanting one another but fighting it, Ian escaping the holds, jumping around Jake as he spun like a ballroom dancer, never looking away from Ian. As the final bridge played out and slowed a little, Jake took Ian by the hand and pulled him close for a second, then he was shoved back as it picked up and Ian launched into a set of three jumps and Jake followed, sliding to his knees to weep into his hands, their ending pretty similar to before when Ian came back and held him, Jake looking up at him from his knees while Ian touched his cheek. A band of lights lit up all of the other skaters lining the back wall on the final note, their lights decorating them all in the various pride flags of the world, 'love is love' written on the screen for a moment.

The noise was phenomenal and Mickey was sure his chest was going to pop open and spray confetti everywhere. The Olympics had gone in hard with their acceptance of all love this year and it was wondrous to see. The skaters all bowed, Ian and Jake removing their masks though it was for nothing with Ian really, everyone knew that hair and dance style, but when Jake's face appeared, the block Mickey was in went absolutely crazy with noise and yells of pride. Svetlana was down there somewhere, smiling like she owned the world surely, her little plan working a treat.

“No fucking way! Brooker!” Seth bellowed over the cat calls and cheering and downright screaming the team were exploding with. Did they honestly not realise he was missing?

“Oh my _God_ , son! Son! Yes, Jake! Yes!”

“Lynn, you _beautiful son of a bitch_!” Louie finished his proud yelling off with a whistle so loud Mickey had to cover his ears.

Bart turned in his seat and caught Mickey's eye, yelling but Mickey couldn't hear him. He shook his head so his captain mouthed _did you know about this?!_ And Mickey smugly nodded, mimicking a pianist while he was at it and Bart dropped his mouth open. Seriously, had they not noticed him doing that either? The fuck.

More music started up, that damn song that most would say they loathed by now but couldn't stop dancing to, every skater now on the ice doing some kind of flash dance, egging the crowd into clapping along. The gates opened and out came random dancing skaters, going up the gangways and really getting everyone going while it seemed as though it was simply a damn party on the ice, kind of in sync, but over excited. Mickey chanced a glance at his dads and rolled his eyes, Dean bouncing like a child and Richard stroking the back of his blond head in that way that said he was so done with his shit.

Mickey found himself wriggling to the music a bit, but only because Mandy was dancing in her seat and had given him a look that told him to do it or her was going to lose a nipple; he turned to look at Louie who was cat calling someone, only to see him turned to face the dancer now close to him. Ian. The redhead was dancing and smiling so big and bright that Mickey was lost, everything was quiet, his whole world gone except for the guy in his sight.

Hey, Ian mouthed. Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey sent back, laughing a little. He was goddamn beautiful and there was no way he could sit through another hour of this, not with Ian close by but not in reach. He wanted to touch him, hold him, kiss and praise him until he ran out of air. How could someone make him so damn elated without doing much more than dancing and smiling his way? Mickey very nearly got up out of his seat to go show the world who this guy was to him, but the music ending and the lights going out stopped him. If not for the slight jolt to his chair back and Louie squawking, Mickey would have jumped clean in the air when a hand fell on his shoulder, another turned his face and a hot set of lips pressed to his, smiling and soft for a moment and then Ian's presence was gone, taking his twinkling, white-clad ass down the gangway and out of sight like a ghost in the dark. Mickey smiled and ignored Louie sigh and Mandy's little squeak of excitement, watching the very last medal winners being called to a make-shift podium to be decorated.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a pit of feels, come down here, i have blankets, tea and biscuits and books you can throw at me. So sorry. 
> 
> Im on tumblr! youknowyoutried :}
> 
> i love you all, you loving, patient beauties!! xox
> 
> songs were as follows, in order, should you wish to listen to some and get in the mood:
> 
> Don't Need No Money - Sigala  
> Don't Let Me Down - Chainsmokers  
> Power of Love - Gabrielle Aplin  
> River Flows In You (original) - Yiruma  
> Beethoven's Five Secrets - The Piano Guys  
> Faded - Alan Walker  
> Love Don't Let Me Go - David Guetta  
> This Is What You Came For - Calvin Harris f. Rihanna  
> Arwen's Vigil - The Piano Guys  
> Don't Let Me Down - Chainsmokers  
> Can't Stop The Feeling - Justin Timberlake


	21. Distract and Redirect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to let go and have fun before the whole thing is over, right? Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is MASSIVE. I'm not joking and I'm not even sure I like it and where I stopped it but there is obviously more to come, just, had to stop otherwise it wouldn't mash. Hope you like this one, it's up and down and all over the place. I'm honestly exhausted from this beast, it's over 14k words. Yeah. Not happy with it, but I never am, am I? Enjoy my dears, you've been gold star! 
> 
> WARNING: FIGHT. Swearing. Kisses :} emotion, PANIC ATTACK. BIG ONE!

 

After being handed their medals to wear with pride, and once the torch had been extinguished with the runner off on his new jaunt to send the winter flame around the world, the closing ceremony had officially closed the Games and it was time to celebrate; parties had been set up in every hotel with a big enough conference hall, the sports hall, the public rinks, both indoor and out although they may as well have declared the resort one giant piss-up for all anyone cared because that's what it was rapidly turning into. No matter where they trekked, the hockey team were engaged in dancing, praise and handed drinks left and right, music blaring out from every inch of snow, it seemed.

“This is fuckin' insane!” Mandy howled as they shimmed through hoards of people, trying their level best to get to the hotel the team were in so they could ditch their kit and put their golden medals away safely. Thompson had been keeping them together in a box with a padlock, but the guy had been swallowed about ten minutes after the last around of bellowing cheer rang out as the flames got doused.

“Where's Lou gone?” Mickey shouted to her and Mandy tiptoed, looking about for a second and then offered a shrug. He'd lost everyone but his sister and Milo, Louie was God knew where, Jake too, his parents, Ian. Too many cheerful, space invading people eating the people he kind of didn't want to lose tonight – Mickey was beginning to feel seriously claustrophobic and the partying had barely begun.

Mandy's manicured and yet slyly dangerous hands enclosed around Mickey's middle and he froze as she pressed against his back, “You wanna turn into a battering ram and get the fuck outta here, into some kinda space or somethin'? Someone just grabbed my ass and if there weren't so many people, I'd baton the fucker. Can you charge?”

“I uh... _fuck_ ,” Mickey breathed, eyes darting everywhere, even up to the inky star-dotted sky, looking for an escape; all he needed was one sorry idiot to shift a little to create a squeezing spot and he was going for it, black eyes and bruised ribs a-plenty for anyone who didn't see him coming. He took a steadying breath and tried to believed he was chasing down a checker or the puck in this mass of bodies, but the music and cheer was too loud and he was starting to panic a little. It was getting real difficult to believe they were outside and not in some A-list club in LA or some shit.

Mandy's hands tightened around his waist and curled into his jacket as another got a hold of one of his dampening hands and pulled him forward really hard, catching Mickey off-guard so much that he collided with a brick wall of a man and was thankfully saved of any apologising or _I don't wanna fight you_ talk by whoever the fuck was dragging him and his back-pack of a sister through the crowd like the people weren't even there. When Mickey had to duck under arms waving and swinging, he was happy to find that that was the barrier of that crowd gone because he flew out of the heat and cramping fuckers into cool, snowy space with a rush of air from his lungs and a hell of a lot of colourful curses.

“A'right there? Didn't hurt your wrist or anything did I?” Milo asked, dropping Mickey's hand once he'd loosened the vice he'd taken on, Mandy's clawing presence taking a few steps away.

“You... little fuckin' _superman_!” Mickey pushed out in a breath, smiling as he hooked Milo around the waist and squeezed him, near toppling them both over into the snow, much to Mandy's amusement. Mickey planted a thankful, wet kiss on Milo's cheek and let go of him.

Milo pulled a disgusted face and shoved Mickey away with a laugh, “You're welcome, you gross motherfucker.”

“Nice thinking, Hollander,” Mandy praised, winking, “Did you hear me threatening someone's balls or what? I asked Mickey to charge like, a second before you hypersped us outta there. Super sonic hearing? Louie's gonna go mad once I tell him, you know he's mad on superhero stuff.”

“Do not even _dare_ tell him!” Milo said with a nervous chuckle, “Can't deal with him most days, I will murder him if he comes after me. I just... I thought you guys were following me but when I looked, you weren't and then I caught sight of Mick's face and reached back. Honestly though, I was worried I'd got the wrong fuckin' hand! I mean, I wasn't looking, I just grabbed and ran but the deadly grip after a few seconds said I'd hooked rumble fish.”

Mickey shrugged and nudged his teammate with his shoulder fondly, “Good fishin', kid.”

“Know where anyone else is, mister super-sight? Find anyone?” Mandy asked, tiptoeing again to try and look. Milo rolled his eyes and shook his head at Mickey in a _how the fuck are you related to her_ way that Mickey had seen so many times over the years.

Mickey spoke up first, “Do you see anyone else here?”

“Fuck you, it was a legitimate question, asshole!”

Milo sighed heavily and toed the snow, “If they were thinkin' like us, they'll be heading back to change so our best bet, if we wanna find anyone, is to go back to the hotel and search there. To be honest, I'm enjoying the peace so do we have to find- _Ow_!”

“Noise or not, birds of a feather fuckin' flock together!” Mickey said, winking and smirking as he started hauling his ass up the slushy walkway of the slope, “I always want peace from you fuckers but I'd rather have a broken thigh than be without any of you so move your superhuman backside and help me relocate our squad, Miley, it's our last night.” Mickey focused on where he was putting his feet as his Nike's really weren't cutting it against re-freezing slush, muttering under his breath, heavy with sarcasm and teasing, “You're so childish, Jesus Christ, spoilt little shit, wanting out on his team, god _damn_. Wants his medal taken away, petty little bitch, I mean, the guys he wants to lose are the reason he's even got it in the first place, fuck me, ungrateful Miley-”

“Yeah, _Miley_ ,” Mandy chimed in as Mickey lit a cigarette and sniggered.

Milo groaned as he followed with Mandy, rubbing his smarting nipple, flipping her his middle finger and then at Mickey as he looked over his shoulder with a cheeky smirk, stream of smoke curling around his face and up, “Fuck _off_.”

Music blended and Mickey couldn't distinguish what the hell was coming from where or what it was supposed to be in the first place, eyeing everything with suspicion as they passed open doorways, gave the top entrance of the sports hall an over the top wide berth as they passed, the crowd too much and too heavy for any of their likings. Approaching their hotel, Mandy to busy trying to shove Milo over so she could stuff snow down his back, Mickey breathed easy as a familiar flash of blond fluff bopped around a small gathering of athletes in their respective kits, dancing to whatever he could hear coming from within the hotel.

“Mickey!” Louie cheered, his hand up and closed around a bottle of something. He was changed, bundled in a thick coat and skinny jeans, snow boots – where the fuck had he gotten those from? - and clearly happy, whether from a little alcohol or just from being his normal, joyous self. It was annoying Mickey as he got closer.

“The fuck did you vanish on me for, huh?” Mickey snatched the bottle and chugged it while Louie had the wherewithal to look sorry for a moment, then peeved at his now empty bottle but then he was back to bopping and hashing some kind of dance.

“Sorry, Mick, but people and noise. I've only just come down, so thanks for gutsing my beer, bro, real civil of you,” Louie was being a little shit, winking and moving as Mickey took a swipe. “Go change, man. The guys have got your dads playing beer pong in the back somewhere, it's hilarious.”

“Pops will slaughter any fucker who takes him on and you know it,” Mandy said as she slipped through and into hotel, Milo creating a path, his head-ducking hiding not going unnoticed by Mickey at least.

“Wasn't hinting at any incapabilities, madam, I know them well enough. Just, it's fuckin' funny to watch the guys get owned by your butter-wouldn't-melt daddy's!” Louie called, Mickey dodging his swaying body.

“Where's your shadow?” he asked, popping his eyebrows when Louie looked like he had no idea what Mickey meant. He fucking did. His blushing throat said he did. “Is that my dad's coat? While we're at it-” Mickey put his hand out and smiled, eyes closing because “the fuck you get furred boots from?” was not something he'd ever think he'd be asking Louie, though, as his friend thumbed his lip and coughed, yeah, it wasn't such a random thing with Louie, not really.

“So, yes it is and I swapped my Nike's for these. Regretting it now but my toes are snuggly,” Louie said, looking down at the furry things. Mickey started laughing at the absurdity of it and turned for the stairs, Louie shouting, “Lynn is changing. Your shadow is about somewhere too, I think. Saw red hair about five minutes ago, assuming it's the Torch.”

“Oh my God,” Mickey breathed and turned, “He's not the only fuckin' redhead on the planet, dumbass!”

“Hey!” Louie barked, “That shade, dude, I haven't seen that on any fucker else. Ever!”

“You been lookin' at him _that_ closely?” Mickey wondered, holding the stairwell door open with his back, his curious tease causing Louie to flounder enough that he didn't get a reply out before Mickey was heading up to his room with a chuckle. A week ago and Louie would have fired back something filthy but now, it was like praising Ian and his _anything_ was off-limits. He wasn't, Mickey didn't care, Louie was harmless, scared of his own shadow as it were and not at all capable of flirting Ian out of Mickey's reach. He was right though, that shade Ian had bursting from his head was like a kaleidoscope of oranges and copper and red that seemed to change all the time, not a natural colour Mickey had _ever_ seen on someone without them botching an orange and blood red dye together and even then it was nowhere near close and gone once Halloween was out.

Mickey changed quickly, sprucing up with a quick shower and lathering the mandarin foam all over himself, opting to dress in tight black jeans and a grey t-shirt that had a blue stitched v-neck with three little buttons down the front. He put his medal in his kit bag carefully and shoved the thing inside his closet, staring open-mouthed at all of his clothes clean and hanging on the rack. _Cleaner ghosts_ , he thought, staring at his suit and it's still very absent tie, at his jersey's all pristine and pressed and void of blood spatter. He put a little gel in his hair and got it to lift nicely, spayed himself and spritzed with a small amount of cologne over his chest rather than his neck because if he was going to do anything tonight, it was seduce the hell out of his skater and he was sure Ian liked the smell of him, but nobody liked tasting perfume when licking and biting necks. He tucked his keycard into his wallet and rammed it down in his front pocket, his phone in the other and grabbed a coat before he left the room, made double sure he has his smokes and lighter in the pockets before he was out in the hall, checking the door was locked behind him.

Mickey jumped bodily as he was grabbed by the arm and waist and spun so his back slammed against the door, his mouth opening with a startled huff as his eyes dragged up a navy chest, “The fu-”

His mouth was captured and his nose was invaded with a heady scent that he'd grown very used to; his fisting hands went slack and landed on sharp hips, his eyes slipping closed on a soft hum of happy pleasure as he saw red eyebrows and heard Ian's low groan of satisfaction as Mickey opened his mouth up to his tongue. Ian's hands crept as stealthily as the guy himself could, under Mickey's hem and up his sides, gripping and pressing nimble fingers into the grooves of Mickey's ribs that presented every time he took in a deep breath of air and Ian's pleased, gentle moans. The kissing was escalating and very soon Mickey found himself being lifted onto the toes of his right foot as Ian hooked up his left leg, around the guys hip, his feverish lips wet and hot as Ian kept catching Mickey's bottom lip, tonguing it, biting it lightly, licking into his mouth with moans that were increasing in volume the more he pressed their bodies together and pawed all over Mickey's sides, his neck, the shortness of his haircut, his jaw and down to his ass.

Ian pulled back quick and Mickey chased his mouth, his hands flying up to cup the back of Ian's head to keep him there, swallowing the pained and needy whine Ian loosed on him as Mickey hiked up his level of desperation and forced them to turn, Ian now with his back pressed against the hardness of the wall and door frame. Ian's hands cupped Mickey's jaw and thumbed the hinges tenderly, his grip forcing Mickey back with a bit of trouble – Mickey had been waiting to touch the guy, let alone kiss him, since he vanished into the dark of the ceremony and he'd seen but a flash of him as they were all let out, Lana dragging Ian off into a sea of flashes and bodies.

As Mickey drove forward with his body, mouth seeking Ian's again, Ian chuckled and held fast, eyes ticking side to side as he looked at Mickey's, “Someone might come.”

“Not if you don't let me at you,” Mickey grumbled, trying again and again he was hindered so in retaliation, he pushed his crotch against Ian's thigh and shamelessly rode it. Ian's eyes tried to close and he groaned. “You started this,” Mickey pointed out.

“I did. Fuck,” Ian said on a breath, giving in with an open mouth, sucking Mickey's tongue when he licked into the skaters mouth. If anyone did see then they were going to have a show because like hell was Mickey going to stop and douse his fire. He was surprised enough by Ian jumping him without asking for a kiss but he was far more surprised by his own reaction; he wanted to tear Ian's shirt off and lick his chest, bite him, tongue his lines and suck his lip print into Ian's porcelain skin. He wanted to kiss his mouth numb, swallow his noises, have Ian babbling in need and unable to speak without a slur, ride him until his own thighs burned, have his heels leave bruises on Ian's nape, have his own back ache something rotten from being bent beyond what it should be. He wanted to go slow and hard and fast and memorise everything, every touch, all the sounds and breaths and the different shades of Ian's eyes, the flush he got over his nose, the way his skin glowed before it was taken from him in a matter of hours. He _wanted_.

Gripping the back of Ian's orange head, Mickey slowed the kiss down to barely there movements of puffy lips and slow, seeking licks until he was able to pull away for a breather, resting their foreheads together. “Is it wrong to wanna forget that party and lock you away so you can't leave?” Mickey spoke quietly, thumbing the blood red short cut behind Ian's ear, the lighting in his hall only adding to the devilish glow Ian usually wore.

“No. Not at all,” Ian said, his eyes taking on a shine and his face earnest and slightly pained. So he felt the pang then, was barely able to keep it covered. Mickey knew, if given the opportunity, his mask would crack and Ian would see how much he was starting to agonise over the flights, forget what was coming after those. “You can't... you gotta reign it in, I can't see you... stop thinking, please?” Ian said softly, his hands falling to Mickey's lower back, pulling him closer still, his eyes falling closed on a shaky breath.

“I want to, I want to shut my head up but it's loud. I've begged it to piss off but it won't listen,” Mickey whispered, his fingers mapping Ian's neck and giving him a cemented memory of how soft the skin was under the pads, how bristly red hair dotted in patches until his fingertips danced up his skull.

“I want to forget going home. I want to hide in there, with you, pretend we don't exist, haven't got careers or homes half a world away. I don't want to go home, Mick, I'm not ready to give you up,” Ian's voice hurt Mickey when it rolled from his lips, sad and like he was fighting to stay sane, “I don't wanna go downstairs but we should. Loud music and other people's stupid happiness might fuck this horrid shade off for a bit, hm?”

Mickey hummed in agreement and turned his head to kiss Ian's smile back onto his face for a moment, all hints of heat gone for now. Later, at least they had later. “S'go see who's failing to beat my dad at beer pong,” Mickey huffed and curled his fingers in Ian's sleeve, tugging him down the hall towards the stairs and only letting go once they'd pushed through the door to the foyer. Rather than try and looked around for anyone they knew, Ian lead Mickey through the packed corridors to the back of the building towards the obscene noise of cheering and music. The conference rooms all adjoined and for tonight’s purpose, all of the fold back partition doors had been locked back and the entirety of the back end of the building was one enormous, elongated room filled with people, lights, music, drinks tables and in the very end to where they'd popped in was a selection of game tables and one was crowded.

“This way,” Mickey said, hooking Ian's elbow before anyone could rope him into a conversation and take him from Mickey again. They wormed through without causing many to realise who they were and after a handful of congratulatory back pats and one messy was-meant-for-his-mouth-but-hit-his-eye kiss from a female so inebriated this early she should be ashamed, Mickey pulled up behind Louie and interrupted his loud cheering and body bouncing by goosing his friend hard.

“Who the fuck?!” Louie spun and his scowl broke into the sunniest smile, “Shoulda known. Hey Red!”

“Yellow,” Ian sassed and got yanked forward by way of fist in his collar and hugged tight, kissed wetly on the cheek and rather than struggle like Mickey thought he might, he smiled and laughed a little as Mickey meandered over to Dean, watching Ian give back as good as he got, only frightening Louie off by sneaking a hand up his neck and making to kiss him properly.

“Don't even!”

“Don't start somethin' you can't finish, bitch, Jesus,” Ian hissed as Louie clambered over him and took him across the room while trying to wrestle or something, Mickey couldn't tell but he was finding it real amusing to see Louie have a hard time of it trying to win over Ian. This was the arm wrestle all over again.

“He's such a fuckin' child,” Mandy supplied from the other side of there dad, Dean completely into his goading and cheering-on of his husband, deaf to his kids bracketing him and keeping him from upending himself in his excitement.

“The biggest,” Mickey said.

Mandy handed him a cup with a mumbled beer and narrowed her eyes at Louie hefting Ian up and going from play fighting to dancing with him, boucning him around like he did to Mickey after a win, “Did he lose that?”

“Most likely. Ian kicked his ass arm wrestlin'... Louisiana is gonna keep tryin' to fuckin' beat him at somethin',” Mickey took a gulp of his drink and grimaced. “The fuck _is_ this?”

“Lager. I went moochin' around the other groups and met some pleasant Englishmen who suggested this. To be fair, Mick, after you get used to the piss-like flavour, it's real potent stuff. Juggernaut said to add black or lime or lemonade if you can't take it like a man,” Mandy winked and was saved from a pinch by Dean hollering and finally noticing Mickey at his side.

Mickey snorted and muttered we all know you like black into his cup as Dean ragged Mickey about enough to have him spill the rank as fuck drink down his thigh. As rank as it was, it was packing a kick so maybe he could finish it.

“Do you see the wonder that is my sexy as fuck and badass husband over there? Do you?”

“He won beer pong, dad,” Mandy piped and Dean rounded on her, “OK, OK, he's the fuckin' master.”

Dean crowed and kissed her forehead, winked at Mickey and wolf whistled and got an answering _Jesus Christ Dean_ from somewhere in the middle of the mass of jumping guys and girls.

“Calm down, Mardi Gras. So embarrassing,” Mickey muttered into his cup and got a clip around the back of his head for it.

“Like you weren't itching in your skin watching Mr Silver Boots doing his sets or nothing,” Dean gave his son such a taunting, wolfish grin that Mickey choked on his piss water. “Wait 'til you're married to him and he skates rings around younglings like it's nothing, come to me then and tell me you didn't whistle your throat raw or want to jump his as-”

“Fuck, dad, Jesus,” Mandy hissed as Mickey felt his face go hot.

“Intending to.”

Mickey groaned and moved away with a distraught scowl. Someone had already got on the shots then. He was saved from Dean cackling at him by Jake swinging around the back of some built-as-fuck player and winked at Mickey when he saw him, Mickey using him as an escape immediately.

“Look like you're drinkin' piss there, Kovich. What'd your dad say this time?” Jake laughed, nudging Mickey with his hip, his green-brown eyes a little too merry for Mickey's liking after what he'd just had to listen to.

“One, it _is_ piss, swear it, and two... not goin' to repeat that. They made those Men In Black mind wiping things yet 'cause I fuckin' need one.”

Jake was not put off by Mickey's grouching, merely beamed down at him more, “That bad huh?” when Mickey scoffed a yeah, Jake tittered to himself and looked about. “Seen-”

“In the other room, I think, went waltzing off with Ian 'bout five minutes ago,” Mickey said before downing the last mouthful of lager with a pained swallow. Jesus, he wasn't going to touch that again.

“Think that's a safe thing?”

“Not heard any yelps for help yet, Paw Patrol, so I ain't worried-” Mickey was cut off mid-chuckle by a loud booing, hissing noise going up as the lights dimmed and the music stopped.

“Mandy!” Louie's yell was clear through it all and Mickey barely had a second to catch up as Mandy flew by and disappeared into the other part of the joining rooms, her appearance in there noted by a loud cheer from the blond. Jake rolled his eyes and tipped his head and Mickey nodded, following him through with a defeated roll of his lip. The ping-pong table had been moved and folded down against the wall, that much Mickey could see through the mass of murmuring party-goers, and he jumped bodily, much like Jake who went to cover his ears and ducked a bit, frowning deeply as music erupted much louder. Where'd that DJ come from? Mickey needed another drink in his hand, something to ease his awkwardness when it came to music and parties but more to keep his flexing fingers occupied. He turned to see Jake ugly-scowling at something and pushed onto his toes to look, spying a slightly elevated dance floor, perhaps trying to be a stage or whatever but not high enough that any drunkards would fall to their dooms when attempting karaoke because _fuck_ , that was karaoke machine. Jesus Christ.

“Next!” Someone yelled over the europop beating on everyone's poor, nowhere near drunk enough ears. The music screeched to stop and the distinctive, upbeat salsa-like melody of Sway burst out of the speakers. Mickey knew this song like the back of his damn hand thanks to Mandy and her salsa class phase, something she had begrudgingly tried to teach Louie after he'd begged for weeks. He'd never gotten the hang of moving his hips and body at the same time as moving his feet back and forth, but Mickey had, from watching and going it alone in his room when nobody was home.

“Look!” Jake laughed into Mickey ears and pointed through the moving crowd to a familiar blond head of hair bopping close to a head of fire, the colour flashing under the lights and beams that were coming from fuck knew where. Mickey raised his eyebrows and shoulder his way forward carefully to see what the hell was going on because Louie sure as fuck wasn't dancing to this, but Ian was if his rapid movements told much. And this was a two-person kind of dance, too. The music was fucking loud as it was and only got louder the closer he got, presuming that whatever sound system was in this tunnel of claustrophobia had the main set up close to where Ian was salsa dancing his ass off with-

“Thank fuck,” be breathed as he spied his sister matching Ian step-for-step and for speed. At least it wasn't some random chick who might get the wrong fucking idea again, or some guy – Mickey shivered with a horrid flush of jealousy – with his back pressed close against Ian's chest, Ian's hands linked in his and his strong arms closed around the dude's waist as he swung his hips back and forth, feet moving a step out, a step back, a step the other way and back. Mandy was a sight to see after so many years of her not doing this kind of thing and Mickey found his mouth curling into an open grin as Jake bumped into him from the side, the guy moving his waist to the music as he watched. Much as Mandy looked like she was loving every second of this, Ian was in his element; he moved like liquid despite the skin-tight jeans he had on, his shirt unbuttoned a few, his body and feet never stopping and his smile infectious. It was like his body just went with whatever the beat told it to do, as if he didn't even need to consider steps or think about moving around or what the moves were to begin with. Ian spun Mandy out and caught her hands when she turned back, pushing her back and then pulling her with him, his damn middle never stopping in its rocking, sharp swings from side to side and was he pushing his ass out? Probably. Mickey always stuck his out a little more to get the swing going and he drank in the sight presented to him now, his tongue just sitting on his bottom lip as he stared and took in the line of Ian and his smile and long as hell legs. The duo separated and danced side by side as the song drew to the repetitive end, grinning and really pushing into it until it stopped and they bowed over laughing.

“That was pretty amazing!” Richard's deep tone rumbled into Mickey's other ear and he jumped. “Hey, come out for a smoke?” that had Mickey tearing his gaze away with a frown of worry because he was pretty damn certain his pops had given up on the habit. Maybe he was a social smoker and Mickey hadn't caught on? Or maybe, maybe he was about to drop a nuke on his son? More likely, Mickey thought as he followed his dad's long stride out to the frozen decking and did a sweep of it – Luke was gone but still. This area was haunted now.

“Know you ain't got no smokes hidden in your bra so, s'the matter?” Mickey cut right to it and Richard gave him a sad, small flicker of a smile and ran his hand down his face to wipe it away.

“It's uh. Shit kid, we gotta leave,” Richard grimaced and Mickey sucked his top in, nodding at the floor and scuffing his shoe a little harder than intended, his toes stinging a little. “Mickey.”

Mickey pursed his mouth and lifted his head to look up the mountains, jealous of the calm they had. He couldn't speak, simply gave a bob of his head and fought to keep his face from creasing in anguish. It was starting and he couldn't stop it from happening or pretend it wasn't coming for him, this leaving bullshit. Christ, his chest _hurt_.

“Mick, don't force it back,” Richard said softly, stepping closer slowly so as not to spook his son into running into the fray of the party and to somewhere he could hide and wallow. “Mickey, speak to me, please?” he tried, close enough now that he could grip Mickey's arms tight and hold him where he was, concern painting his sharp features in a shade Mickey fucking hated seeing. Much as he felt like he was going to drop through the floor and hurt for the rest of his life, he realised that his dad wasn't faring much better than he was. Still, it was hard to look at Richard for more than a second without feeling like he was going to vomit or sob.

Coughing and flicking the tip of his nose to ward off the stinging he felt there, Mickey blinked a few times and rolled his eyes. They were filling and he couldn't stop it, “You uh, you sure they'll let you on the plane after drinkin' so much?”

Richard sighed heavily and tugged Mickey forward hard, his arms tight and strong around his son's back, nose against his hairline near the top of Mickey's head, “You know I drink Pepsi and fake that shit. I can't drink because if I did, who the fuck would get alco-pop Alice into a bed in one piece?”

Mickey felt a laugh bubble up at his dad's semi-serious words but it broke in a sob and he gripped his dad's shirt so tight in his fists that it came untucked, shaking hard from the force of his silent crying. Richard said nothing more but started humming off-tune, something soothing while he kissed and kissed Mickey's temple and breathed steadily, thumbs moving back and forth but his hands were staying put.

“It'll be fine, kiddo, just a small amount of time and you'll be home with us,” Richard hushed, his chest warm and rumbly against Mickey's forehead. “Sorry none of us can stay with you but know we did try, so hard boy, so much so that I very nearly got thrown off the flight.”

“Yeah?” Mickey sniffed, not at all ready to let go.

“Yup. Called them, yelled, apologised, yelled again, apologised again. They said that all flights out were booked up for the next few days so, if one of us did stay, we'd be staying long after you left anyway. Defeats the objective, right? Still, I tried real hard kid, I promise. I'm so sorry,” Richard kissed his skin again and Mickey closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of the detergent they used at home, the warm air that was different to Dean.

“I'll have Lou.”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed with a thick swallow, “You will.” He didn't try to move for a while, just letting Mickey take comfort from him but eventually, he started to shift. “Dad has left a sedative with Joe for you, if you need it,” Richard said softly as he moved to pull away and Mickey had to fight his finger's instinct to cling tighter, stepping back with his head down. He wasn't out of his pop's arms for more than two seconds before he was spun and buried in Dean's neck, his dad stuffing a hand into the hair of Mickey's crown so hard it hurt but he didn't flinch, just hugged back so tight with his arms that he was sure his dad would have some kind of print all over his neck after.

“I fuckin' hate leaving you at any time but this feels so much worse, so horrid, Christ,” Dean hissed wetly, holding Mickey's face against his neck like his life depended on him shielding his kid from the world. Mickey fought it, he really fought it, but the panic seeped in and he started to shake and gasp and sob brokenly through it. Dean didn't pull away but sank to the floor and dragged Mickey with him and started singing into his ear softly, trying desperately to control his own shaky breaths for his son's sake. Mickey felt like he was chest deep in ice water, his head under a dessert sun, his skin alive with the needles his heart pumped into his bloodstream.

“He got this?” Louie's voice was concerned and far away, going further into darkness as Mickey's breathing escalated and he started to claw at his dad's arms, his waist, anything to hold onto but the shirt he was wearing had a stupidly silky texture to it and his sweating hands couldn't grip it. Dean was slipping away from his fingers and Mickey was terrified because all he could see behind his screwed eyelids was Dean vanishing with Richard into nothing, no matter that he was warm and solid and singing to him and going nowhere. They were _leaving_. He felt it was stupid to feel like his life was ending but he couldn't stop it, no matter how hard he screwed his eyes shut or screamed through the fears in his head that it was a little thing, they would be at the other end to greet him from his own damn flight.

“Deano?”

He kept singing and breathing shakily but Mickey felt his body shake with the movement of his head. Mickey knew this was bad, but to have Dean, his steady rock, the one who _always_ got him out of this, shake his head in defeat only served to make Mickey feel like he was drowning. He started to heave and tried in vain to breathe the smell of his dad in, tried to have it damp down the bile and piss water mix chomping at the bit to rush his throat but his body wasn't listening to him any more. It was out of his control and he was fucking terrified of it. “Mickey? Into position, son.”

He was moved and forced to put his head between his knees, his blurry eyes spying Dean's snow-wet knees pushing close to his side. He kept singing and exaggerating his steady breathing, fingers strong and warm on Mickey's nape and dancing over his back. Fuck this fucking patio. He was going out the side door next time. For the first time in a long while, Mickey started rocking and digging his nails into his temples, scratching his forehead and grinding his teeth while he willed his heart to stop before it burst in his chest and drowned him in cold blood. It wasn't the end of the world, he wasn't going to die, it was just a flight, just time apart from them. This was damn close to how bad he'd been at home before his taxi to the airport was due to pull up, only he'd gone from bone aching sadness into rage and screamed and smashed a vase and gotten really violent in his misery and Richard had been the one to take him to the floor, wrapped his legs and arms around Mickey's body like ropes and held him still while Dean held his face and forced him to look at his openly frightened one. He'd been late collecting Louie on the drive and they'd had to book it through to the desk for check in before it closed. He hated his head, he couldn't escape it.

“Hey! Where'd you- Mick?” Ian's voice smashed into Mickey's mind and caused everything in there to freeze in limbo. Ian's tone went from questioning to elevated panic when he spoke again, thick and fretful, “I don't want to intrude or get in the way but maybe I can help? That OK? Don't want to tread on toes, believe me, but-”

“Toes are numb as fuck,” Dean broke through his soft reiteration of Imagination and Louie laughed lightly somewhere. “What good are toes anyway? Fingers for feet,” Dean was obviously trying to have Mickey laugh or something, or maybe he was a few sheets into the wind drunk and didn't really hear himself when he muttered in tune.

“Means you won't do any harm if you tread on them,” Richard said and after a beat of silence he added warmly, “Means you can help, Ian.”

Louie's curious voice snuck in through the noise of Ian's footsteps on the decking, “You sure bro?”

“He had something like this the other night or whenever, managed OK then so I'm gonna give a college try here,” Ian said as he carefully dropped to his knees and put his hand between Mickey's knees, fingers open and the hand steady. It was like a buoyancy aid in a flood. “Moo?” his gentle tone and little stretch of his fingers had Mickey sliding his hand into Ian's, able to think clear enough from the grounding contact that he could follow Dean's breathing better and pull his head out of the crushing whiteness it wanted to succumb to. It felt like hours of nothing but breathing and squeezing his hand repeatedly, but Mickey came out of his fog heavy and exhausted and with sore eyes that sought out almond-shaped green the instant he lifted his head.

“I love you, so much,” Dean hissed and kissed Mickey's cheek hard. “We have to go, Mick, fuck... I love you.”

“I do too!” Richard called down as Ian gave a tiny smile and rubbed his thumb over the skin of Mickey's hand, “Hours, Mick, that's all it is.” Mickey bobbed his head and nudged it against Dean's, nuzzled it even, didn't try to duck away from the kiss he got on his crown nor did he look away from Ian. His dad's seemed unperturbed by this, embraced it as they rounded on Ian briefly and gave him back pats and murmurs Mickey couldn't hear over his internal monologue of _hours, hours, hours_. He got a kiss to his temple and closed his eyes, leaned on Mandy's shoulder for a second – her perfume was always sweet - and nodded. Then they were gone and Mickey couldn't, wouldn't dare, look away from Ian. He probably looked like an intimidating creep without blinking but Ian didn't seem to mind at all, gazing back and breathing steadily as Mickey's sight zoned in and blurred out repeatedly with his floating exhaustion. He felt bad for not saying anything to his family but they'd done this run a few times with him, they knew he wasn't being ignorant or cold but that he _just couldn't_ respond. He'd text them and see them in a matter of hours. _Hours_.

“So I bought a drink and Jake's like, guarding the door like one of those Redcoats. Expectin' him to start bending at the knees and saying 'ello guv'ner!” Louie appeared after a while of nothing but green eyes and thumb circles and silence that only snow could bring, a light veil that sat over everything and quietened it with or without consent. “Here, bro, managed to find some iced tea and might've dumped a few spoons of sugar in it,” a cup was placed on the deck and footsteps moved away a bit.

“Oh, thanks man,” Ian tore his eyes away and Mickey blinked, happy when they came back to him over the rim of a red cup. _Hours_. He very nearly growled through his teeth when his head sang out that Ian would be gone in a matter of hours too. He squeezed that hand a little harder this time and breathed in through his nose slowly. Louie asked Ian something but Mickey heard nothing over taunting white noise trying to break into his head again, but he saw Ian's head bob ever-so slightly. Probably _everything good, dude?_ Or something similar. Louie never rushed in if someone else could handle Mickey better because Louie might be a personal space invader but he never pushed if he didn't need to, always watched and waited and would step up to the plate if needed. Louie was pretty emotional when he'd had a drink too, and was sound enough of mind to understand that his own snotty crying and freaking out would just make things worse. Mickey loved him and could see Ian's respect for the giant idiot written all over his face as Louie reached down and grabbed Ian's shoulder for a second in a _all good here_ gesture and then stuffed his hand into red hair fondly. Louie trusted Ian to know what he was doing. Louie trusted Ian. His _dad's_ trusted Ian. Mickey felt warmth run through his cold legs.

“See you in a little while, eh? Karaoke!” Louie chirped and muttered _I'm fucking cupid, yes I am_ as he yanked open a door and then it fell silent again. Ian's eyes narrowed a little like he was thinking of something sweet, a fond smile gently pushing his rosy cheeks up and crinkling his eyes.

“Know how blue and beautiful your eyes are?” Ian said quietly, his gaze taking on a contemplative gleam and Mickey felt his face move in a little frown. This was out of left field but he didn't move or try to stop Ian because his voice was gentle and curious and Mickey wanted to roll into it like the tone was blanket and he could burrow in and settle in the comforting safety it brought as it rolled from red, bowed lips. “They're very expressive, you know? Right now they look wet, painful, like you're thinking too much about something you don't want to think about and, all things considered, I won't tell you to stop. That'd be daft of me. But when you're happy, they look like Lake Tahoe in the summer, bright and clear and a cerulean only the most idyllic pools seem to be. When you're sad, like now, they're sharp and a deeper colour. Reminds me of the sky as it turns from day into twilight. A bit odd, maybe, for me to say this but they're gorgeous, your eyes, and much as I talk to you with words, you speak to me with looks,” Ian smiled as Mickey's nose rumpled with a flash of mild confusion and clarified, “I'm really happy you find some sense of stability with me. I can see you feel better just from hearing me speak. How do you feel, really?”

“Like I'm... Anchored,” Mickey whispered. Ian blinked a slow smile and maybe his left eye dropped again in a wink, but it was so lazy that Mickey wasn't sure it wasn't simple happiness washing through the guy. He shifted a little and pushed his feet wide apart, pulling Ian's hand towards his chest.

“You sure?” He really could see how Mickey felt because though he seemed hesitant, Ian went as Mickey tugged, opening his mouth, glancing from Mickey's face to his mouth, his hand tightening just a little more in Mickey's grip. He knew to go where he was wanted, needed. Mickey didn't bother to nod or to check for other people because not a breath from anywhere had been heard and they had Sergeant Brooker on the door. He kissed Ian with a much emotion as he could muster, begging him not to go anywhere with his free hand on the guy's elbow of the arm he held himself up with. He broke away to nuzzle him close, temples together for a second before Ian leaned forward and Mickey was fighting to stay sat up as Ian adjusted himself and Mickey until he had Mickey in the bowl of his lap, knees at his back, hugging him tight with his nose squashed against the hard line of Mickey's throat.

“Thank you,” Mickey croaked after a while of nothing but holding and feeling. Ian hummed against his collar and pulled back enough to catch Mickey's eye from under rosy eyelashes.

“Shouldn't feel like you need to thank me for helping you out of something so terrible, a thing you can't control, I’ve said this. But, I get it and... you're welcome. Any time,” Ian smiled and Mickey swallowed thickly, carding his hand from Ian's crown to his nape gently.

 

 

They'd smoked three cigarettes between them, backs against the thrumming wall of the hotel, before Mickey had found his voice again and went for something entirely odd as the thought popped into his head. He turns his head to the side and regards Ian's profile as he looks up at the snowy slopes, voice low he mutters, “My dad's met you before.”

Ian bobbed his head and smiled a little, glancing at Mickey, “I remembered earlier, actually. Seeing him crouched on the ground next to you kinda sparked a very deeply buried memory. He was one of the blues who came to my house when I was a kid, patched my mother up and carted her off. I remembered him kneeling on the floor next to her, putting her head down while his partner applied whatever the fuck it was to try and cut off her bleeding wrists. Your dad came to me though, half way through, don't really know why but I think it had somethin' to do with the black eye I had and my stunned staring. He was as kind then as he is now.” Ian was soft as he spoke, considering his memories as they came to him.

“He's pretty fuckin' decent,” Mickey added quietly, warming a little as Ian knocked their bent knees and Dean's smile surfaced in Mickey's mind. “Sorry 'bout the circumstances though,” Mickey said sincerely, understanding the black eye without needing to be told. It was Southside and nobody had it fucking peachy keen in any sense, shape or form. He wasn't stupid. He'd been a Milkovich long enough to understand that. The genuinely thankful smile he gets thrown at him is enough to tell him Ian appreciates the sentiment.

“Before or after?” Ian asked, eyes back on the snow. Mickey followed and gazed at the blanket of soft darkness, curious about what he was really looking at as he hadn't actually bothered to look during the day. Not once. Always on the look out for something far more curious and pretty lolloping around.

“Before,” he rumbled, knowing exactly what Ian meant. “'Bout a year or two I think. Y'know, he wasn't immediately our foster person or whatever, took a lot of time for the system to give us over to him but the fact that he'd been one of the medical guys called to the uh, I dunno, fuckin' rescue or whatever, had seen what kinda life we'd been havin'... yeah, they gave in after he badgered them to their knees.

“Oh yeah?” Ian chuckled and Mickey hummed, fishing out another smoke as the songs turned into the late 80's.

“Dude's tenacious. He'd worked the Southside for years though, knew the hoods and shit, had some kinda know-about when it came down to it. Doesn't matter that he's Northside, 'cause you'd have never guessed it, too down to earth and no-nonsense. He used to come check on us in the homes, saw we weren't doin' so good, but 'cause he'd been like, the first real friendly, genuine face we saw 'cause he sat in the car with us from Terry's to the holdin' place, we kinda felt like we could trust him I guess? I don't know really, just remember seein' him as the good guy in a world of bad ones. Like I said, he knew it and what he _knew_ helped and eventually we got signed into his care and yeah, might have trusted him and all that shit, we- _I_ didn't make it easy for him for a long while. He dealt with everythin', and I mean _everythin_ ', I threw at him, I was the shittiest little shit but he took it in his fuckin' stride like some kinda saint. Got asked a few years later, when _I_ was at least old enough, if I wanted to go into a boys home and he looked so fuckin' hurt by the thought of me sayin' yeah. I wasn't gonna, not by a long shot, but I had to know why he didn't wanna let go of me either. I asked him why the fuck he'd wanna keep a kid like me after everythin' and he just smiled at me and said 'it's what parents do, love unconditionally'. Couldn't explain to you what they felt like, to hear that so honestly, not even if you gave me a tomb of descriptive words. I'd never wanted to find the person who called CPS before then, but that... yeah, kinda wanted to thank them, for giving me and Mandy a real chance at living,” Mickey smiled a little and passed his cigarette over, maybe kept his fingers there a second longer for no other reason than he wanted to.

Ian was quiet for a long while but he was smiling kindly at the little block of information, wistful and touched, and spoke through smoke when he found his voice again, “I know who it was.”

Mickey gaped and turned to him sharply, “How the fuck would you know that?”

“Southside,” he said and that pretty much summed up how he would have heard about it. Everyone's business was everyone's fucking business. “I _just_ worked it out, so I wasn't keepin' it from you before you wonder that,” Ian handed over the cigarette but held Mickey's hand in his long, cool fingers, “I _think_ it was my dad.”

“Excuse me?” Mickey's eyebrows shot up his forehead before he could catch them and he flicked the smouldering stub far away, staring at Ian intently. “Not mad or anythin', Ian, shocked as shit but... look, you gotta elaborate.”

Ian licked the inside of his cheek as he thought hard for a moment, real hard because his forehead creased deeply and his eyes went wide and still like he'd zoned right out. Mickey was watching him like a hawk, couldn't help his fingers tapping Ian's nor could he stop sucking on the inside of his lip either.

Ian jumped and nodded, taking a steadying breath before he spoke gently, “Pretty sure it was him, you know? Listen, my home life was fuckin' shit before we got out but it was a walk in the park compared to yours. You saying 'Terry' set off another memory of Frank bitchin' about that 'motherfucking Terry, selling my poor Monica that fucking half-baked shit. He did this, blah blah, I'll have him locked up and take his hoard from him one day!' while Monica was in the ICU. Yeah, it took him another year or so and as I _never_ listened to anything he said back then, I'd forgotten. One day, he's rallying us, 'gotta go, gotta leave, gotta get out' and packing boxes and I swear it only took an hour of us pitching in before we had whatever was most sentimental and usable before we were leaving the house and heading somewhere. Set up a new life in Michigan City, Frank got clean and found a good job, Monica pissed off somewhere, we all got into things and the rest is history. Pretty fucking sure he called CPS on Terry, and your surname seems to meld into that somewhere, somehow but we were so young and never crossed paths or anything and whatever Frank talked about fell on deaf ears. Never really took notice. He always was and always has been a vengeful asshole, and usually nothing good comes of it but this kinda trumps all of his other fuck ups, to me anyway, because look at you... and me. Look at us.”

Mickey stared and he stared long and hard at Ian's honest expression, his curious eyes and the way he was chewing the inside of his cheek. Well fuck. Look at them indeed; loved and happy and in lives that worked for them, nothing but nice things and security. They were a far cry from the kids they had been and definitely from the adults they would have been had Terry not pissed off a man in love.

“Owe him a drink,” Mickey said rather than blurt out how close they had been to each other once, how things could have been, how he remembered a drunk man pissing on the front lawn and sassing Terry as he loaded a shotgun in the back, calling him everything short of a waste of spunk. Mickey had been in the basement window, hiding, and had seen the guys feet pelt down the street in a zig-zag as Terry's boots pounded through the house above. He'd assumed it was just some random idiot to take offence at Terry in some way, as most did. Not his inevitable, drunken saviour _and_ the father of a guy so wonderful that he wasn't sure he could ever let go of him.

“Pepsi, sure,” Ian smiled, thumbing Mickey's cheek, “He gave the drink up once we'd moved. Mostly because Finoa hand-cuffed him to the radiator and forced him to go dry because he kept selling shit to get beer money. Trying to sell my skates snapped her temper. He was in that room for a month I think, can't remember. Probably doesn't even remember making that call though, kinda had a time of it trying to explain how the hell we'd moved in the first place, so...”

“Don't care if he does or doesn't, still needs thankin' even if he doesn't know what the fuck for,” Mickey chuckled and winked a little. “I hope _this_ Gallagher doesn't go forgettin' me so quick, though,” Mickey said and fell quiet as soon as he registered what he'd slipped out. Boy did he feel like ice right now. Ian's eyes widened and he frowned such an ugly, upset crease.

“What? No. No, shit, no. No. No, no,” he was shaking his head resolutely and cupped Mickey's jaw hard, “ _No_.”

Mickey smiled sadly and clenched his jaw, ground his teeth a little under Ian's palm. “It's a long time, Ian,” he said seriously, hating himself for it. It was the fucking truth and it terrified him.

“No, it isn't, not really,” Ian was panicking and Mickey felt like shit for inducing it, his heart beating hard to punish him for it. Ian looked like he was breaking, “If you think for a fucking second that a handful of weeks is going to make me forget about you, Sir, you got another thing comin'. Don't think like that, please? I think about it every minute and it makes me feel sick to think you'd... I mean, it's only been two weeks, we have no reasons to... fuck. _No_.”

“You better not be thinkin' the same as me-”

“Yep,” Ian sucked his lip in and thunked his head off the wall a little as he deflated against it, eyes pleading.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” Mickey breathed and stared as Ian swallowed. “Not likely.”

“Same, Mick.”

“Bad as each other then?” Mickey popped an eyebrow and Ian kissed him rather than agree, quick presses and shaky fingers and frightened breaths.

 

It was the 90's by the time they hauled themselves up and back inside, right into the hottest room on the planet; the music was loud and something he couldn't quite remember but he had little sparks flying through his head, like he'd known it once. He followed Ian to the bar – where the fuck had that been, in the wall? - and very nearly had to paste himself the back of the guy so he didn't get swept away in a current of bodies. While Ian had the upper hand when it came to leaning over the thing to be heard, Mickey cast his nervous gaze around to see if he could spot any of his team; he could see near all of them dotted around, in small groups or with unknown partners, laughing and moving and happy. He smiled as he caught sight of Louie's humid-styled hair between two women and entertained himself while he waited for Ian at his back by watching his friend trying to dance with both of them at the same time. Louie was pretty drunk, Mickey could tell straight away but then he couldn't fault him for that because he had been outside for a long while and Louie was all for 90's music and booze.

“Here,” Ian yelled over the noise, his body turning behind Mickey's to press against him, chest hot and not at all distracting. Mickey took the plastic 'glass' and sipped, licking his lip in and nodding appreciatively as Budweiser ran down his throat and left a tang in his mouth. Ian winked down at him when Mickey turned to salute his choice. “Wanna find some space or sit here?”

Mickey looked around and pursed his mouth and shuffled to hike himself up onto a stool and covet his drink like a dragon from cheeky hands. Ian sat on the stool next to him and sipped away, bobbing his head and smiling to himself, his profile and bright eyes lit up and shadowed when the lights roamed and flashed. Mickey couldn't stop looking at him, wanted to take him away and look, look, look and hide. His spell was broken when Ian jumped and looked down at his watch, scowling at it and shoving his arm behind his lower back like it would help some. Mickey felt a little sick as it dawned on him as to why Ian would look at the time and he suddenly had to urge to fidget, looking past Ian's head at the flowery display at the end of the bar. It was hotel after all, not some club in Chicago. So intent on spotting what the actual colours were, Mickey didn't really notice Jake hiding behind it until a particularly bright yellow beam hit him for a second. Jake looked both humoured and red hot angry and Mickey didn't need to turn to make sure to know exactly who the guy was watching.

“Mick?” Ian's call had him tear his curious frown off Jake's almost hidden frame, “Is this normal?”

“What?” Mickey turned his head at Ian's nod in Louie's direction and groaned before he'd even planted his eyes on the blond. Yeah, this was normal but he _had_ hoped he wouldn't, not with all this Jake stuff, or the fact that they were in a room full of different nationalities. Louie was pawing and groping the woman stuffing her ass against his crotch, looking near ready to start kissing her and take her to his room. Mickey knew he was _not_ drunk enough for this, never really was when he felt like cutting in, but he had to stop this embarrassment before it really got out of hand, either in Louie's pornographic way or by Jake maybe going berserk. Relationship statuses irrelevant, Louie knew what Jake felt and Jake was hopeful, if not a little delusional, and maybe Mickey was too, thinking for a while that Louie might just pack it the fuck in and give Jake a chance seeing as he'd fucked him over, literally, time being in each others lives on top of that. If Ian was trying to stuff his hands up some stranger's shirt after all this they'd been doing, he'd not be hiding behind fake as fuck flowers but cracking skulls maybe, bloodying noses for sure. Jake was some kind of human volcano and Mickey knew it, all stoic and silent and _brewing_ until he just could not contain the beast and Mickey, much as he'd like to see Louie reprimanded for his seriously indecent behaviour and downright disregard for someone's feelings, knew he was close and maybe had an obligation as Louie's best friend and Jake's, too, to stop it where it was. He didn't want to, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to use himself to corral Louie and his libido nor would it be the last, for sure.

“He's a fuckin' idiot,” Mickey stated, draining his drink quickly as Jake shifted in his periphery and catcalls started up from Louie's direction. Great. Ian grinned and twisted his mouth in a _yeah, sure is_ kind of way.

“Want some help?”

Mickey shook his head, ready to go to the noose, but gave a pointed look over Ian's shoulder. “Brooker is lurking over there. He ain't happy.”

Ian turned to look and grimaced in sympathy, “Bet he fucking isn't. I wouldn't be.”

Mickey gripped Ian's shoulder and slid off the stool, rolling his head to ease his neck because he was tensing the hell up. Too sober. “Look, gimme enough time to escort the women away and then just, I dunno, unleash your inner dancer and fuckin' go for it, distract and redirect the attention or somethin'.”

Ian smiled and tapped his fingers against his drink, “Can do, Mick.”

Mickey didn't waste any more precious time to himself and carefully stalked him way through the people between him and Louie and his tartlet now holding his head in her cleavage and shaking. Dear Christ. Thankfully, the music blended into something more upbeat, something recent or at least not from the 90's, and it had her start jumping and getting Louie to copy so Mickey took his chance and stood so she was between him and his target.

“Hey!” Mickey awkwardly started to move his body a bit, catching her attention and getting a massive smile from Louie over her head, “Mind if I cut in?”

“No, Sir,” she drawled, licking lipstick smeared lips as she reached out to touch down Mickey's chest. He had to breathe for a second so he didn't shove her off and smiled sickly sweet, taking her hand and pulling her flush to him, spinning her with wink. She looked quite curious as he spun her away and kept his back to Louie, staring her down for a moment. She wasn't getting it, clearly, because she grinned and touched her waist invitingly. Mickey gave her sorry shake of his face, looking anything but, turning to put his arms around Louie's waist instead, kissing his friend's cheek softly so she could see, ramming the point home with a squeeze to Louie's ass that had the blond melt over Mickey, holding him close; Louie knew what was up.

“Fuck, sorry, sorry,” he said into Mickey's ear, hugging him and taking a few deep breaths as tartlet shrugged and walked away to find a new plaything.

“Pack it the fuck in, yeah?” Mickey shouted and jumped when his shoulder was tapped. Turning, he very nearly rolled his eyes into oblivion because tartlet was back and with a friend, winking at them. Great, clueless drunk women. Mickey popped an eyebrow and they took it as an invitation to sway over, pawing at him and trying to engage him by groping his ass. Louie was quick to intervene this time as the song bleared out _shake that thing, shake that body_ by winding his arms around Mickey to pull him out of the way of their hungry hands, shaking himself to the beat and words and giving his attention wholly to his friend with a really apologetic pinch to his features. Mickey took the hint and danced with him but still, the women weren't taking the fucking hint, no matter how hard Louie rolled against him or how much Mickey wriggled his backside back, hand up behind him to claw Louie's messy hair. He even bit his lip for good measure and they ate it up, looking like they'd been given fucking Christmas on a plate.

“Not working,” Louie hissed into Mickey's ear.

“You fuckin' started this!” Mickey bit back, sliding his hands down Louie's hot sides to his ass, pressing them so close he wasn't sure Ian would see this as alright, considering. Unless he wanted Mickey pawed to bits and have him mauled by two lascivious looking ladies, Ian would have to deal for the moment because like fuck was Mickey going to remove himself. Louie wasn't the target any more, their eyes drinking in Mickey alone. Shit.

“Excuse us!” Someone sang over the music, Ian swinging himself into the mix with a devilish smile, Jake following him in a much better mood, smiling and rolling his pelvis, the bottom of his shirt in between his wolfish teeth. Jake was behind Louie pretty quick, giving Mickey some freedom but it was short lived, snatched up by Ian in a snap and spun, pulled close, swayed while the guy himself looked down at him and winked. Ian turned his head and gave the girls a very blatant look; it screamed _you getting this, understand yet?_ And they nodded, still smirking, but they moved away and on to patrons new.

Rather than say anything, Ian let Mickey go and danced around a bit, hips going, back rolling, arms pumping when he kicked his feet from side to side fast. Jake joined him as Louie shook his ass again, bumping his hips against Mickey's to get him back in the dancing mood and he gave up trying to pretend he wasn't interested in letting loose when his friend wiggled his brows and pouted Blue Steel. Jake and Ian made a pretty good visual, dancing side by side, sometimes in mirror, most of the time not and just fucking going for it. God only knew what magic Ian possessed but whatever he'd used, it had worked a treat.

The song blended into a song Mickey knew very well and knew Louie was going to lose his shit over in about point of a second; he did, realising it was Kernkraft, and went mad, jumping up and down and yelling over people's heads. Mickey simply moved as best he thought to the pumping beat until it kicked in and he found he couldn't control his body any more, his awkwardness and self-conscious mind replaced by memories too good to pass up.

Louie's yelling had the the rest of the team winding themselves through the crowd until they were gathered around, jumping, head swinging, backside bouncing and generally being carefree. It was good, but Ian watching Mickey with open fascination and a cheeky, unbelieving smile was far better. Mickey frowned in a _what?_ manner and couldn't stop the smile he felt curl up his cheeks when Ian gave back a gesture and look that yelled _what the fuck is this right now?_

Ian moved close enough to shout, “You don't dance!”

Mickey chuckled and pointedly rotated his body on the spot, arms going up and hips swinging around until he faced him again. “Sure I do, just not on fuckin' blades, twinkle toes!”

“You-” Ian laughed, hooking an arm around Mickey's neck, kissing behind his ear gleefully, “-are somethin' else.” The music blended into a mass of all sorts to Mickey, too into his movements to pay much attention, too interested in how Ian was watching him regardless of dancing himself around like he was. Suddenly, the room was filled the sound of rain and piano tinkling and near everyone cheered, like it was tradition to do when this song came on, Ian included as he put his arms in the air and beamed at Mickey.

“When I hold you baby! Feel your heartbeat close to me,” Louie wailed, “Wanna stay in your arms forever!”

“Only love can set you free!” Mickey finished, grinning as both of them put their hands over their chests and acted out being doped on feelings for a second. Apart from being utterly unhinged most the time, Louie was, and always had been, a great partner to dance with and drunk as he was, he still moved Mickey around with respect. Ian was watching every swing, all jerky movements, every lift of hands, rolls of wrists like the song demanded they give up, side stepping and going for it himself with Seth and Milo either side behaving like they were at a festival. Was Milo even born when this came out? From that song out, it was a free for all, switching partners, laughing mostly but lingering hands and secret smiles from bowed lips made it all the better.

Mickey groaned and stopped stock still, this song not what he wanted to hear at all because fuck, he was not getting out of this without being used as a prop or some shit like usual. But, when in Korea... he should have known. Too old for this crap.

“Yes!”

“No,” Mickey moaned, trying to run for the bar as Louie reached out, his escape halted by snagging fingers in his back pockets. Fucking hell, as if he hadn't done enough for Louie's fill of Mick's Attention tonight. “Ride me and I'll break your fuckin' neck!”

“Just do the thing with me? Won't try and be a jockey, I swear, bro!” Louie laughed and Mickey flipped him off but went along with it anyway because hell, the rest of the fucking room was, Ian enthusiastically included. Mickey raised his brow at him and managed to keep his face dead during the chorus but cracked in the second, seeing as invisible horse riding was a competition at that point, Louie once again trying his hardest to out-do Ian and seemed to be winning, if only because Ian couldn't stop laughing at his leg lifting and arm looping madness. Fucking Gangnam Style.

“Smoke break!” Mickey shouted and moved before anyone could say or do anything to stop him. Outside, he could breathe and happily noted that others were outside escaping too, making the patio feel less like a haunted grave. Ian appeared half through his cigarette and took it when offered.

“Fuckin' warm,” Ian breathed, taking time to stand still while he could. Still, as he blew out smoke and the blued swirls danced around his head due to the cold, heavy air, he bumped his hip against Mickey's and smiled down at him. “Havin' a good time?”

“As good as seein' fuckin' insane as hell idiots tryin' to do the Grand National is, yeah,” Mickey snorted and flashed hot and cold at Ian's giggle. He did manage at sincere nod and smile though because yes, he was having a good time.

“Louie's really quite mad,” Ian said, like the thought had only just struck him and left him frowning a smile out to the snow, smoke shooting from his nose.

“What, you think he has a limit?” Mickey laughed incredulously, “We're in wonderland, Alice, everything's mad here.”

Ian snorted and looked like he'd been hit with a bad joke, dropping the butt into the nearest ashbox he could reach while checking his damn watch again.

“Can you, uh, not do that in front me, please?”

“What's that?” Ian hummed as he turned to look at Mickey and seemed to get what he meant, dropping his arm like it wasn't his, hiding the watch behind his back. “Shit, I'm sorry. Didn't think. I'll try not to do it in front of you again but I can't not look.”

Mickey sighed and thumbed his nose, “I know that, just...yeah.”

“I know,” Ian took Mickey's flighty fingers in his hand and kissed his FUCK knuckles. “You ever thought of changing these letters? Puck woulda suited better, but then I don't know the in's and out's of these being applied,” he mumbled, tracing them softly with his pinky. Distract and redirect. Mickey regarded him for a while, mulling it over; Puck. Wouldn't take much to alter the F. “Life. Puck love? Nah. Puck shot! No. Puck Off with an exclamation mark, maybe? Nope. Puck and maybe little ones on the other knuckles, like little discs of fury. Or an Olympic ring on each, maybe bands like permanent, coloured rings... or maybe leave them naked.”

“You doin' OK there, PPicasso” Mickey asked with a little chuckle, genuinely touched and softened by the dork drawing with his fingers over his knuckles.

“Just thinking out loud, moo,” Ian said with a smile, not giving his hands up or making to. The door flew open and Mickey swore as Bart stepped out.

“The fuck's he done in, what, ten minutes?”

Bart looked sorry but not at the same time, “What can't he fucking do.”

“No, seriously, if you gotta come get me-”

Bart put his hands up and Ian dropped Mickey's, looking a touch alarmed at Bart's suddenly serious face, licking his teeth. “Lou's just had his ass handed to him, like, he was put _on_ his ass-”

“Where?” Mickey said, blood boiling as he pushed back inside without thinking of looking to see if Ian followed or not.

“Foyer!” Bart yelled, Mickey barely catching it and forcing his way through the room to go kill someone. It didn't take him long to find Louie, still yelling and swearing while being made to stay where he was by Seth and David.

“-you fuckin' hypocrite!”

“How?!”

Mickey got into fray to see Louie's attacker red-faced and rubbing his fist. Jake. Well.

“The fuck did you do to him?” Mickey asked, to both of them, but mostly Jake because goddamn, Louie's lip was split and his nose was pissing out down his shirt. Brooker doesn't hit often, usually one to take his anger elsewhere, but when he swings. Volcano.

“I didn't fuckin' do shit, Mick!” Louie cried and Jake gawked at him, tipped forward and gaped.

“You lying fuck!” Jake barked, running his bruised hand down his face and pacing, looking at Louie when he spoke, but it was for Mickey's ears, “I punched him, obviously. Why? Because he's a fuckin' _dick_! An asshole of a hypocrite, so fuckin' self-centred and- I am so fuckin' angry right now.”

Mickey shifted his feet and looked at Louie, prompting him with a tongue roll over his bottom lip and his eyebrows arching up his head. Ian was edging around them, obviously assuming Mickey was going to go for Jake at some point because he was oh-so unsubtle in where he placed himself.

“I didn't do shit,” Louie growled. Mickey waited him out for a while and only got stubborn jaw ticks for it, so he sighed and pinched his nose.

“Tell me what the fuck went down or I'm gonna smack him for smackin' you, simple,” Mickey warned, pointing at Jake but knowing he wouldn't touch him. This was clearly not one-sided. By now, the team had all come out and had warded them off from everybody else, all too sober and curious but silent, ready to move on a dime.

“I didn't _do_ shit.”

“OK, a'ight,” Mickey waved Louie off and exasperatedly turned to his right a bit to look at Jake as he seethed. He decided not to sound to killer when he spoke, just toned his voice down to a deepness that said _you better not fucking lie to me._ “You two are good friends and we don't go punchin' good friends for no fuckin' reason, not when they've _not done shit_ , so explain this situation to me, please?” he was careful to word it so Jake understood what he was getting at, or at least he hoped the guy heard it but he was real angry so chances were for and against. Ian narrowed his eyes and shifted, his presence enough to keep Mickey on the better end of calm between these two. Fucking dramatic little fuckers.

“He's a dick,” Jake said with a shake in his voice and Mickey felt a little sick, rolling his wrist, egging Jake into going further with, “He tells me not to do _certain_ things, you heard that. He tells me, makes all kinds of rules for me and then what do I catch him doing in the fuckin' stairwell? _Fucking_ some girl, in the stairwell, not even hiding, enjoying himself _obviously_. S'OK, right, _Fael_? One rule for one, one rule for another, or some shit like that, hm? Fuckin' hypocritical asshole then has the gall to tell me that I'm overreacting when I get mad at him, get upset or what the fuck ever! Like, I have no right to be hurt by what he's doin' but he can whine and turn shitty on me for sharing a fuckin' pizza with a friend? Lucky he only got one fuckin' punch in the mouth 'cause if Greg hadn't heard us yellin', I think I might've strangled him!”

Jesus fucking Christ. Staring at the carpet, Mickey can feel himself getting angry, “Greg?”

Fulham coughed and nodded, “Swear man, had to get between 'em. Seth too. Called for help when they wouldn't stop tryin' to maul each other. That's the truth, man.” The others, or the ones who had been present, all murmured in agreement and cast judgemental eyes over both Louie and Jake. Ian's eyes are wide and his brow up when Mickey chances a look.

“Why would you do that, man?” Jake sounds broken and Mickey can't take it that.

“Louie, I'm uh... yeah man,” Mickey can't figure out what to say, his voice drying up a little. “After, well... and you guys. Fuck, Louie, you're a dumbass.”

“This got something to do with Brooker tryna kiss you in there, Fael?” Shaun wondered, stepping out of the circle a little. Mickey's eyebrows shoot up his head again.

Louie, clearly unhappy about being put on the spot, clenched his jaw hard. “That was. No. Fucker embarrassed me but-”

“The fuck, man? You kiss us lot all the time! OK, maybe not a select few, but still,” Shaun snapped.

“That what that was? You stating somethin' in a revenge kinda way?” Jake hissed, looking ready to belt Louie again. Ian stepped close to Jake and his presence seemed to pull him a step back without knowing it.

“The fuck is this all about? You try to kiss him, he gets angry, fucks a girl and you punch him for it? Now, we ain't blind, but we are _definitely_ missing shit here. We can leave if you want, but we _are_ your family and you know we don't judge, right?” Seth is surprisingly calm considering he's holding Louie still. The rest of the guys all nod and seem genuinely worried and curious, but ready to move if either guy moves.

It's Jake who spills the beans but then Mickey, much as he wants to sink into floor with how bad this going to turn, can't say he didn't expect it because Jake is fucking furious. “You've never wondered, I've never told but yeah, I'm into guys-”

“No biggie, man.”

“Yeah, like that shits bothers us?”

“-and I'm the most fuckin' stupid idiot on the planet, glutton for punishment 'cause I fuckin' wanted _that_ spiteful fucker right there, and he knew it. So, yeah, blame him all you want, blame me for being stupid because hello, Mister Womaniser couldn't possibly want a guy, maybe toy with him, but not really want him, much as he likes to say he does 'cause what, it gets him what he wants? Whatever, it's stupid, but I hit him because he said shit, promises and he lied and he is ashamed and I can't fuckin' _handle_ it any more. I'm not a fuckin' toy, Louie! Fuck!” with that, Jake was on his way out of sight.

Mickey chewed his thumb through that and curses around it, wiping the hand down his face, “Fuckin' Christ, Lou.” Ian's walking off somewhere and Mickey knows where his guy is off to and marvel's at him being so willing to try and help some way. The team looked equal parts stunned and exasperated, angry maybe, like Mickey is.

“You gonna smack me too?” Louie hissed, looking at them all. Every single one them groaned and shook their heads.

“The fuck you think we'd do that for? He's done a good enough job,” Greg chuckled.

“You're like, the _worst_ fuckin'... you better sort this out, right? Apologise. Probably won't ever speak to you again but yeah, you owe him somethin' you shitty little dick-thinkin' asshole,” Seth said, almost fond, as he shoved Louie out his grip. None of them look like they approve in the slightest, but they know what he's like, none more than Mickey, who is really trying not to belt him one because what the fuck is wrong with him? It doesn't excuse any of Louie's behaviour and he knows it because he's starting to look around and realise just what he's done now the anger is dissipating.

“You deserve to have me beat your fuckin' ass right now, you know that, right?” Mickey said, looking pointedly at Louie and it's enough to have him crease his face sadly. “Told you not to fuck him around. Told you to stop it or let him go. Why you don't listen, I'll never know... maybe it's your selfish need to have what you fuckin' want. Spoilt little fuck. I'm really not interested in your excuses if you even dare to have any, but know that I'm really, really disappointed, man. Fuck, Louie, I never thought you'd be quite that uncarin', not with him.”

“I feel like the biggest asshole, piece of shit, bastard... everything.”

“You are,” Milo said sadly. “Don't get it, really don't.”

Mickey took a deep breath and coughed lightly, rubbing his hands together, “Not for us to stand around chit chattin' about. Go fuckin' apologise and go to bed, man.”

“Mick-”

“ _Don't_ , Lou.” Mickey's been upset with Louie many times but this is a new level – he's severely disappointed, the the point where he can't even muster any anger against him, just wanting Louie out of his sight. Louie goes and Mickey doesn't even feel bad about it. Maybe he's too shocked, or too fucking tired to think right now, but it's all dramatic and they'll either patch this up or they won't, it's not for Mickey to mull over. Louie will feel bad for weeks and Mickey will keep quiet, but Louie will know what he's thinking. Mickey stupidly looks at the clock on the wall as the other guys move out and he feels sick enough to wonder if he might need to find a toilet. It's near one in the morning and Ian is flying out with the early birds; he hopes, as he sits heavily on the sofa, that Ian packed because he'll be moving to check out and leave soon. Mickey knows the flight is in the morning, his own in the afternoon. International flights - 2 hour departure wait, check in - 1 hour. 2 hours to the airport. Mickey had heard others chatting about their flights during a quiet bit of the ceremony and, if Ian is on that one, it jets off a little after nine. So that leaves Ian... maybe two hours, three at best before he has to start readying himself to go and then he's gone.

Mickey launches himself across the space to get at the small litter bin and throws up into it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yah. There'll be more in the next one, more one on one ;} this was just... i don't even know, alright, i don't. But it's done, outta the way, totally different to what i thought i wanted to write because I'm sure i mentioned karaoke... sorry. it's just, went off on its own. but it's done...
> 
> next is.... FUCK NO RUN! BOOK IIIIIT! 
> 
> *Jack Sparrow's it*
> 
> tumblah: youknowyoutried


	22. You're The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This has taken me days to write and it's been a journey, I'll say that much. I have wept, I have laughed, I have sighed so heavily I thought I might deflate. I don't know how you are going to receive this, or if I've done a good job either, but I've poured a lot into this. It might seem rushed at the end, but it's not, not to me. It's steady and not too much and, though I have one more chapter to write, this is the end. I hope you enjoy it and I'll see you at the gate :') I'm so sad and hollow right now! Oh my god lmao
> 
> WARNING: THE END IS HERE! SEX but seriously, it's not the thing i went into this wanting to be a big deal - it's the emotion i've charged it with that means more, i think :} so, emotion, panic attack at the end but induced by phobia and over pretty quick.

 

Furiously scrubbing his teeth and tongue clean, trying with all his might not to trigger his stomach and throw up again, Mickey's ear pick up the sound of a knock at his door despite the noise in his head and the tap running. He shut off the water and kept brushing his teeth on his way to the door and flung it open.

“So, your coach is livid,” Ian sighed as he stepped into the hotel room at Mickey's wave, following Mickey through to the bathroom once he was sure the door was locked shut. Mickey had already had an ear chewing from Thompson and a few texts from Ian, though they had been mostly apologies and that he'd be there as soon as he could. Radio silence from Louie. Mickey spat the foam out and gripped the edge of the counter to keep his gut still.

“Mmhmm. I got that message loud and clear 'bout five minutes ago,” Mickey croaked, “Lou's lucky we ain't playin' no more 'cause I'm fairly certain he'd be taken out entirely. Good job we're flyin' home in the mornin' too 'cause he'd be on the next flight otherwise. Fuckin' idiot.”

Ian was leaning against the door with his head tipped back and his hands holding the back of his neck, “Don't understand him.”

“ _You_ don't? I don't fuckin' get his behaviour and I've known him for a long damn time,” Mickey pinched his nose and licked his minty teeth. “I don't think he knows what he's doin', I really don't. It's like his brain has leaked out his ears or something. He ain't like this, but then he's never been a situation like the one he's dumped himself in. Hey, uh, Jake? How's he doin'?” Mickey asked gently, eyeing Ian from under his lashes because, even though he was borderline exhausted, Ian still looked pretty damn gorgeous as he was. His arms up and hands clasped around his nape had his belly exposed, his belly button appearing and disappearing with every breath he took. His arms looked powerful even semi-relaxed.

Ian didn't open his eyes when he spoke, his voice low and monotone, like he was drifting off into another world in his head, “Not good. Wouldn't stop swearing; honestly, Mick, it was 'fuck this', 'fuck that', 'fuck Lou', 'fuck everyone and their dog'. He was fuming but also really guilty for hitting Louie, but then he'd go off into a rant again, justifying his actions. Was like I wasn't there to be honest, didn't need me or anything. Thought he might need restraining, you know? Hah, I went after him to console him or some shit, but nah, guy would've belted Louie down the stairs if he'd followed him. Not a tear in sight. Wondered just how much strength would be required to take him down but thankfully, he was kinda controlled. Exhausting to watch. He was packing when I left him, giving himself something to do I guess. Told me that he would let you know when it's safe to approach again... he's _pissed_.”

“Kinda good that you went then, new and friendly faces don't stir up much compared to someone you've know for a few years,” Mickey took a step closer to Ian's still form and looked him over, “He'll be OK. He's got years of practise under his belt when it comes to Louie and whatever feelings he's got.”

“That in itself is a sad thing, but it's not for us to fix. No playground antics here,” Ian mumbled as Mickey got close enough to see the faint pink tinge across the skater's nose. One eye cracked and Ian smiled, “Hey.”

Mickey couldn't smile back, too enthralled by the dopey grin playing with Ian's lips and the softness of his face, the shade of his hair under the harsh bathroom lights, how it stood out like a flame against the white of the door, how his eyes still seemed so bright and inviting even though, as Ian opened them both at Mickey's lack of response, Mickey could see they were slightly bloodshot. Mickey lifted his hands slowly and cupped Ian's cheeks, thumbs ever-so gently swiping across the dusty eyelashes framing those doe eyes he couldn't get enough of looking at, fascinated by the softness and how Ian chuckled on a breath. Mickey's fingers moved to trace copper eyebrows and down the bone of his sockets, over his cheekbones and the bridge of Ian's nose gently. Mapping, drawing in memory, fixing the image into his mind like a puzzle piece he refused to lose so he'd not have such a struggle to remember him when he-

“You're...” Mickey whispered, eyes darting back and forth between curious ocean-green lights. He swallowed, “Ian.”

Ian snorted and winked, cheeky, “I am.”

Mickey clicked his tongue and fanned his fingers over Ian's brow, gently touching the skin as it bunched up with a wiggle of those coppered brows. So quietly, Mickey said, “You're beautiful. Probably get told that a lot though...”

Ian's smile dropped from bright and cheeky to soft and serene, his hands reaching to cradle Mickey's head. “Nobody ever says it with such honestly, not like you just did. Felt like I'd never heard it before,” Ian said, a little shaken by Mickey's open appraisal, his words soft and all-too packed with a punch. He didn't try to say it back, not like Mickey was fishing for compliments, but his face said he was looking at something otherworldly, so curious and reverent.

Mickey pressed a kiss to Ian's cheek and used one hand to turn one of Ian's wrists. “I know I said not to look but...” he needed to know. The hands on Ian's watch were blurry from their close proximity to Mickey's morose eyes though he got the gist of the time they had left. Not enough. Maybe two hours. He couldn't tell. “Shower- on!” Mickey barked, dropping Ian's arm and stepping back from him, quickly giving Ian a reassuring purse of his mouth, hoping his eyes were kind through the cloak of misery draping itself all over him. He shed it as he shed his clothes, determined not to let his fears worm their way into this, not now. Ian watched on as Mickey dropped his boxers, not once breaking eye contact, “Help clean away the party?”

Ian beamed at him and pushed away from the door, “Of course.” Dork, waiting for an invite. How was Mickey going to let him go? Maybe Ian was a secret contortionist and Mickey could stuff him in his carry-on? “Hey, out of your head. C'mon, Moo, fuck. Can we forget for a bit longer, please? I just... it's just you and me, right now, nothing and nobody else, right?” Ian begged, yanking off the last item he wore – his watch. He very nearly threw it at the wall.

Mickey swallowed thickly and felt his heart break at the look of sore desperation on Ian's face. His chest legitimately hurt. _Christ_. “Yeah, 'course,” Mickey nodded as he stepped close and curled his hand around Ian's nape, pulling him down for a kiss. Hot hands fell to Mickey's hips and pulled him close, Ian manoeuvring them with ghosted steps and mumbled, romantical nonsense until the shower door shut and they were under warm spray and surrounded by the sound of falling water. Nothing else. They washed in silence, Mickey trying to shampoo Ian's hair but with that back and nape presented to him, sopping wet, he forwent the shampoo and dropped kisses all over the skin he could, earning a dirty laugh out of Ian. Eventually, Ian had managed to wash his hair and then Mickey's – his level of patience was something to be marvelled at because how he could carry out such tasks while Mickey kept kissing his body and stroking his fingers everywhere he could, well, that was beyond Mickey. He'd have snapped within seconds but Ian, Ian just kept his cool and hummed through the petting, enjoying it for a smile graced his beautiful face the whole time.

“You clean enough yet?” Ian asked as they rinsed off, holding out the mandarin soaked wash cloth to Mickey, fingers dancing in the bubbles. Ian was still calm and soft where he was a foot or so away, his hair plastered to his head like some high-school bowl cut. Mickey almost laughed, would have, if not for the rest of the sculpture he was looking at; those thighs were sinful, all shiny with water and solid under Ian's weight. Ian wiggled the wash cloth again and his bicep flexed. Shit. Just the thought of touching Ian in a manner less than friendly, thinking of licking into his mouth, absorbing his heat and moans, feeling every inch of him had Mickey's dick filling rapidly. It always gave a flash when he laid eyes on the guy because dear God, raw attraction, unbridled want was what he had with Ian and it didn't seem to want to calm down, not that he wanted it to either. His body, his blood, his mind sang along to Ian's song.

Mickey pushed his hair back and then ran a hand down his face, shaking out his hand. He thought for a second, if only to use that second to look Ian up and down with what he hoped was a blatant _I'm going to eat you_ look, tonguing the corner of his mouth when he answered, “Yeah.”

Ian dropped the cloth and Mickey barely had enough about himself to hold his balance, Ian moved that quick, pressing Mickey against the glass wall with his body and growled _good_ before he dug fingers into Mickey's wet hair and kissed him hard. Calm and collected on the outside he may be, Ian was a raging fire underneath, a master of concealment. It was exciting to know Ian could hide his arousal like that, never knowing if he was close to breaking point or when he would devour Mickey's mouth like this, how much more it would take. It occurred to Mickey, as Ian's erection pressed into his abdomen, that the skater had angled his body away a little before, subtly hiding his cock from view. Much as Ian could hide, once it was uncovered and exposed, his neediness and desperation was extremely clear; he'd started pawing at Mickey's ass, moaning little noise against Mickey's tongue, the fingers in Mickey's hair gripping and scratching his scalp while Ian's entire body seemed to vibrate, hips rolling, lips stealing kisses, shaking legs knocking against the glass as Ian clumsily tried to slot their legs together comfortably. It was the sneaky blow job again, Ian losing himself to Mickey.

Mickey pushed Ian a little, breaking their soul sucking kiss for a moment to gasp out, “Calm down a bit, soldier, you're gonna break somethin'.”

“Shit, can't help it, sorry,” Ian chuckled bashfully, opening his eyes on a deep exhale, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright and both insanely aroused and a touch embarrassed. “I've wanted to touch you _all_ fuckin' day, kiss you... I'm shaking. _Jesus_ , I wanna kiss you, all the time, so badly.”

“Just don't break the shower-”

“No promises,” Ian hushed as he ducked in and inhaled sharply through his nose, that sound now a trigger for Mickey's own need; the fire of want exploded throughout Mickey's system as Ian curled his arms around and under, bowing over Mickey to grip the back of his thighs and then he picked Mickey up off the floor with a light groan and pressed him against the glass, licking the appreciative, shocked noise from Mickey's mouth with a hum. Ian rolled against him, his cock hard and wet under Mickey's balls, sliding back and forth and teasing the fuck out of him, breaking his voice box with violent hisses and growls as Ian forcefully bumped his back against the glass. Ian's large hands squeezed and held Mickey tight while the guy sucked his bottom lip and pulled it out, diving after it with soothing licks and more devouring movements.

As Ian diverted and found Mickey's shoulder juncture, sucking the tight muscle of his neck and shoulder hard, Mickey snapped his head back and off the glass with a dull sound. “Vampire- Holy fuck!”

“Conflicting use of words,” Ian mumbled against Mickey's neck. “How much force do you think this wall can take?”

Mickey's mind was dancing at the idea. “Not findin' out, Toes.”

“You're right,” Ian sighed, licking thickly over his bite for a moment, moaning in his throat, “Seriously, oranges. Hmmm'K, bed then.” Mickey was put down, much as he loathed it, and they dried off as much as groping hands and ass smacks really allowed. As Ian bent to dry the bottom halves of his legs, Mickey got a lovely view of him from the side, the muscle in his thighs contracting under the skin as the skater moved quickly. As soon as Ian had chucked the towel, Mickey was manhandling him out of the bathroom with pushy hands and full body shoves, easily overpowering the taller guy with a cocky grin as Ian chuckled and went without much fight. Mickey still hoped his _I'm going to eat you_ look was present because, as Ian tipped over the bed with a huff chest first and displayed his peachy backside and powerful thighs, he really was going to eat him.

“Don't-” Mickey rushed as Ian made to move, his tone deep and more than enough to have the gangly redhead freeze where he was, about to push himself up, “Stay right there.” Mickey moved around the room slowly, eyeing the expanse of Ian's body, knowing those doe eyes were watching him so he deliberately made sure his gaze never connected with Ian's; he wanted it known that he was looking openly and with intent. Ian cleared his throat as Mickey tore his eyes away once he'd reached his part-packed case on the floor by his closet, dropping to rummage for the bottle of lube he had and a packet of spearmint tic-tacs. He smirked and fished for the rubbers too, using the extra time to tug his balls a little to relieve the pressure but nothing more than that. Ian was unabashedly rolling his pelvis against the bed.

At Mickey's amused, dirty frown, Ian stopped and dropped his head to the bed. He hadn't moved much, propped himself a bit on his elbows to keep an eye on Mickey, maybe, but he'd done well to keep his legs spread and toes on the floor. Christ he was long. “You got a plan in that pretty head of yours?”

Mickey dropped the lube on the bed, then the rubbers before he started a slow wander back around the bed, the sugary mints rattling as he shook the box. He grinned at Ian's suspicious look, “So, having had you needy and whiny before, I found I kinda like it. You all shaky and breathless and near breaking into bits because of me...” Mickey said offhandedly, all pretences and self-consciousness over dirty-talk flying out the window now he had something in front of him he knew he could work with. He had no reason to be bashful, after all, not with this guy. “Whimpering, barely able to form a thought,” Mickey continued, coming to stand behind Ian, groaning at the sight of his damp skin pulled tight down his back and Ian turned to try and look at him, “I kinda wanna see just how much of a mess I can turn you into on purpose.”

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian breathed, shifting, “What you gonna do?”

Mickey took a deep breath and stepped close, pursing his mouth as he paused to both touch Ian's left ass cheek heavily and place the box of mints in Ian's line of sight so he could see what they were. Ian's gasp was curious as Mickey licked his teeth and pressed along the line of Ian's back to whisper his promise into Ian's damp hair behind his ear, “I'm gonna eat your ass.”

Ian's reaction was a part hissed, part moaned swear into the bedspread and a hard downward push of his hips while Mickey grinned wolfishly and moved back to kneel on the floor. Ian managed to reach and snag a pillow, pushing it down to Mickey so he had something under his knees. “No sense in gettin' carpet burn!” Ian squawked as Mickey nipped the back of his thigh playfully.

“Well, if I was gonna get it, better gettin' it from a good poundin', right?” Mickey sassed, licking his chuckles over trembling skin. Ian swore again, whimpering as Mickey ran his hands from Ian's ankles to the backs of his knees and held firm, nosing and kissing all over the back of his left thigh. He bit the crease of where leg bled into buttock and kissed along the line, humming his pleasure at having this giant pliable and vulnerable and wanting under his hands, behaving himself too. Ian wasn't moving beyond heavy breathing and light trembles, the odd jump from a pained laugh or whimper, but Mickey did have a hard hold on him, enough to silently command he keep still and also courteous in a way; as Ian had given him a pillow, Mickey's grip had Ian's cock buried against the bed so he had _something_.

Ian shifted as Mickey palmed his ass with purpose, pushing the flesh with the heels of his hands, digging his fingers in enough to dent the skin around the tips. “Fuck,” Ian's muffled curse made Mickey chuckle dirtily, teeth grazing the swell around the fingers of his right hand. “This bed is too fuckin' soft,” Ian whined, his head rolling from side to side. Mickey brought his knees closer so he could sit on his calves while he worked.

“Doin' good though, keepin' still for me,” Mickey praised softly without moving from where he was, his words dancing over his fingers, into Ian's skin. Mickey grinned and his teeth pressed against the skater's ass cheek and Ian hummed, whining when Mickey pushed his hands against him harder, making a deep crease where ass met lower back, something he lifted upon to his knees to lick and kiss.

“Mickey,” came in that delicious moan of Ian's, dragged out and deep and near desperate and Mickey had barely done anything. He leaned back and pressed his forehead to the back of Ian's leg to control himself a little; it only lasted a moment or two before Ian was panting with anticipation and Mickey was biting the back of his other leg, licking and kissing and rubbing his hands up and down the muscle of each thigh as he did so. Christ, his thighs were powerful and so soft. Mickey worked his way up the right cheek this time, giving it a good worship with his mouth, kissing and nosing and playful nips every so often before he gave the left cheek an equal amount so he felt like he hadn't loved one more than the other as that didn't seem fair at all.

“You OK?” Mickey asked on a heavy breath when he sat back and pushed Ian's cheeks apart; Ian's reply was a hummed whimper, the lilt affirming, and a twitch of his feet like he was desperately trying to keep still, clearly finding it a hard task. Mickey thumbed along Ian's inner cheeks, close to his hole but not enough, just on the edge of the darkened skin. Lazily blinking and his mouth falling open, Mickey relented in his exploration as Ian was starting to mumble nonsense and his back muscles were contracting with the effort of keeping steady; Mickey dove forward and met Ian's ass with an open mouthed kiss as his hands pushed the flesh apart harder so he could slot in without needing to nudge his way to complete contact.

“Fucking _Jesus_ Christ!” Ian yelped, his whole body jumping and pushing down on the bed. Mickey hummed and breathed hard through his nose, inhaling the heavily changing scent of Ian's soaped skin as he licked thick, long lines over the sensitive skin hugged by his lips. What Mickey could hear was a combination of Ian trying to find purchase in the twisting bedsheets with his hands, the guy's choking gasps and whimpers and the sound of his own blood roaring through his system, his own groans of delight as he licked and sucked and kissed with all he had but he kept it steady, sure, determined to wreck Ian but not in haste. No way was he rushing this because fuck, Ian sounded and tasted wonderful.

Mickey pulled himself out of his daze before he got too carried away and totally forgot what he had planned in the first place, and sat back on his haunches, reaching blindly for the tic-tacs on the floor because he couldn't, for a second, tear his gaze from the glorious sight of Ian's ass and thighs pinked from his hands and mouth. He wanted to find a tattoo gun and pen his signature into the curve of the outer muscle of Ian's right thigh, nice and bold and unmistakable.

“Mick?” Ian peeped after a few beats of Mickey's silent mental worship and he pulled Mickey out of his daze. He bent forward and kissed Ian's calf as he popped the lid open on his mints and tipped out three; it would burn his tongue but cause enough of a rush of saliva in his mouth that he'd not have to keep trying to pull out more for a while. He crunched the spearmint sweets quickly, licking around his mouth at the same time, making sure to keep from swallowing too much but grind them into pretty much nothing so that all his mouth was overflowing with was stupidly strong, fragrant liquid. He got a hold of the flesh of Ian's backside again and jiggled it a little in warning; Ian understood for he groaned and dropped his head heavily, resting on his chest so he could offer his hands up to help hold his cheeks apart. Mickey hummed in agreement and nearly dribbled what he had in his mouth down his chin and chest at the sight, his mouth flooding a little further. Fucking hell.

He carefully pushed his face back into the valley of those precious globes and held tight to the back's of Ian's legs, pushing him up on his toes further once Mickey got his hands right under his cheeks, right where he wanted them. With a chest-locked groan, Mickey carefully pushed his tongue out between his lips and licked, trying to keep as much in his mouth as he could as he licked all over Ian's hole and the surrounding skin.

Ian made to sound out a word but gave up, settling on a _haaa_ of sorts instead as the mint clearly began to work his nerves, his voice muffled seconds later. Was he biting a pillow? Mickey was fighting his arousal, the urge to just open his mouth and devour what he had under his lips, and it was a hard fight because the sounds that began to rip out of Ian were heady and savaging his system from head to toe, heightened in his groin, burning through his blood no matter that they were being sifted through a pillow because, if anything, that made it all the more arousing. After licking his mouth relatively dry, Mickey drew back and spat the rest of what he had in there on to Ian's relaxing muscle and used his tongue to spread it about a bit more, driving Ian's pitch higher into part-hidden, part-exposed whimpers and pleas for something the guy didn't seem to know what for. Mickey drew back and grinned, not giving a fuck about the state of his wet, sugar grained face; Ian's skin was gleaming lightly and he seemed to settle a bit now that Mickey wasn't attempting to lick him into oblivion but his settlement was to be short lived, Mickey knew, because he placed his hands over Ian's larger ones and pushed his lavished ass apart further and _blew_.

“Mickey!”

Mickey chuckled and leaned closer to blow just that little bit more, “What?”

Ian squirmed and moaned and swore in rapid succession as Mickey rocked back and forth, blowing lightly constantly, noticing how tight Ian's balls had become where they sat, cupped by material that did nothing for Ian's state. “Gonna be so sticky, oh my God, fuck,” Ian wheezed once Mickey had blown enough to have gotten himself a little bit light-headed and backed off, seeking out the mints again. The lid popping had Ian's head shooting up off the bed. “Oh Jesus.”

“Mickey, actually,” Mickey leered, only chomping on one sweet this time while making to stand. He moved Ian quickly, onto his back, and straddled him deliberately-so; Ian's rigid dick was nestled between his own ass cheeks but Mickey's heavy weight and the rush of blood down Ian's legs made it so the guy couldn't move, couldn't get any friction. Ian only grinned. “You liked that, right?” Mickey asked, going for casual with a little squint of one eye while he chewed.

Ian's hands trailed up Mickey's sides and his smile turned into something entirely crude, “Maybe.”

“That right?” Mickey breathed through an open smirk, bending forward to lick his minted out mouth around Ian's nipple, blowing hard on it. “Sure it was just a-” he went to the other and Ian threw his head back with a shout, hips trying to lift but Mickey was just too heavy to shift. Ian's hand squeezed the meat of Mickey's hips, pawing and pushing and pulling, “Maybe?”

Whimpering and trying to swallow with his neck stretched in an arch, Ian shook his head from side to side violently. “No maybe. Swear to fuckin' God, I can't think right now, that's how much I liked it. Shit, _oh shit_ ,” he moaned, voice cracked in high and low tones, and Mickey licked his teeth, sitting back with Ian's jaw his focal point, trying to calm the shit-eating grin on his face. He knew he was failing.

“Wonder how that'd feel on your dick?” Mickey had barely finished his taunt before he was falling to the side with a laugh and Ian wrestling him down with a growl, slotting himself between Mickey's legs easily, smashing that laugh into an eye-rolling moan with a well place grind of his erection alongside Mickey's all-but forgotten one.

Ian winked at him and nosed along Mickey's jaw to his ear, hands capturing Mickey's wrists gently before he pushed them into the bed, promising _another time_ breathlessly, nipping Mickey's jaw playfully. “If I don't get to suck your dick in the next ten minutes, I think I might cry,” he said lowly, rolling his body against Mickey's, “As fucking _wonderful_ as _that_ was, champ, let me take care of you now, please?” Like Mickey was going to deny him that; he gave a groan and roll of his own hips, or as best he could with them pinned down under Ian's strength, as way of agreement because his voice had run off. Ian gave him a lingering kiss and lewdly licked his own lips of mint and himself as he moved down Mickey's body quickly, settling on his belly with Mickey's thighs over his shoulders like their first time, a got to work without fuss, holding Mickey's cock in his fist while he licked and kissed and sucked.

Mickey's back bowed and his neck stretched in an imitation of Ian's from before, gurgling out some kind of delirious noise because _fuck_ – he hadn't touched himself at all and now Ian was swallowing him with hums, deep into his wet mouth, and it was too much all at once, but not quite enough to have him explode either. Mickey's hands were in Ian's damp, ruined hair, massaging and pulling and pushing while Ian worked his tongue and Mickey twitched bodily, his chest burning from his panting breaths.

“You OK?” Ian managed to get out as he pulled off, tugging Mickey with his hand for a moment, waiting; Mickey lifted his head up and his mouth fell open at Ian's genuine eyes peering up at him from where the guy was tonguing the base of his dick like he wasn't actually doing that. Mickey gave a shaking nod and Ian grinned, diving back into his blow job with gusto and Mickey forgot how to coordinate his body with his thoughts; he wanted to buck his hips but ended up trying to push his legs wider apart though they tightened instead, he wanted to tug Ian's hair but all he managed was a few pets, he wanted to watch the guy moan and bob in his lap but all he did was throw his head back and rock it side to side with a grimace of overloaded pleasure, whimpering. He tried to regulate his breathing but ended up with ragged, pushed out pants, his throat becoming rattly from how quickly it was drying out. He couldn't swallow, too busy licking the back of his teeth as his body went into a tight arch, hands now tightening in red softness, hips pushing up as Ian deep throated him and choked a little.

“Ian... you...” Mickey wheezed, enough that Ian let up a bit, humming in question while his thick tongue rubbed back and forth over the head of Mickey's dick, licking up whatever pre-come was there. “You gotta, _ahh_ , stop... Chri-” Ian gave one last hard suckle to Mickey's balls and backed off. Mickey's head was light and his body was flashing red hot and he could barely catch a full breath, bending one leg up to try and calm himself down, get some semblance of control back into his floating body, fingers carding through the hair between his legs gently in apology for yanking so hard while Ian rested head against Mickey's thigh.

“You want a breather?” Ian asked, panting himself. Mickey lifted his head with great difficulty, so heavy it was, and looked down at Ian's flushed face, his swollen lips shining like stars, his gentle eyes. “You want a breather,” Ian chuckled and made to move, Mickey dropping his hands with a lazy grin of his own as Ian managed to get up – _how_ the fuck? - and walk his naked self into the other room, disappearing into the kitchenette. He came back with a glass of water and sat by Mickey's feet with that damn smile on his face, waiting and watching as Mickey downed half of it and pushed out a sigh that felt like it might cause him to deflate entirely. Jesus Christ.

“Here,” Mickey offered the glass and took his turn in watching Ian gulp it down, smiling at how the guy had waited for him to drink first. He was real, wasn't he? Ian sighed himself, passing Mickey the empty glass to put on the bedside table. “You, uh, good to keep goin'?” Mickey asked casually, thumbing his lip as Ian stared at him curiously, his face tipping to the side with a lopsided smirk, one brow creeping up his forehead.

“Shouldn't I ask you that?”

Mickey huffed a laugh and hooked Ian's neck, pulling him as he, himself, lay back and opened his legs up again, never looking away from darkened cerulean eyes that drank in Mickey's own like they could do nothing else; Mickey released a content, long and low groan as Ian settled on him again, boxing Mickey's face with his elbows as Mickey boxed his hips with his thighs.

“Wanna go slow,” Mickey hushed, thumbing Ian's nape, shy all of a sudden which threw him a little, stomach knotting and heart beating loud in his ears; he'd just had his face buried in Ian's ass and the guy sucking him down his throat harder than a vacuum. Where had this come from?

“You do?” Ian was equally as quiet, his eyes dancing side to side as he looked into Mickey's, seemingly searching for something. Mickey gave a little nod a bit his lip. He was hit with a flash of hot emotion as Ian smiled and he realised where this shyness was stemming from. “Was it too much?” Ian wondered, stroking his fingers through Mickey's almost-dry hair.

Mickey shook his head. He knew why he felt like his whole world had become this moment, right now, one pin hole of focus in his universe with a fiery guy filling it completely. He wanted Ian to- “Love me?” The words felt too big and too small, because it was as if he was asking if Ian loved him, that it was stupid to ask such as thing of a guy being one himself but then it felt like too little because he knew it wouldn't feel as simple as that either. It would feel like he was being remade to fit one with this one person, enough to get him through their parting but too much for that too, because with Ian gone, he'd be torn to pieces with this memory. But goddamn, he wanted this, so much, so passionately that it made his heart stutter and his nerves explode as he watched Ian realise what he'd asked. That smile was worth every bit of these mixed, burning and settling emotions. It was beautiful and soft and honest and all for Mickey. Nobody else, no one got these secret smiles.

Ian pressed his head to Mickey's and nudged their noses together. “Nothing would please me more, Moo,” he mumbled sweetly, “You good to go?”

Mickey closed his eyes and trailed his hands down Ian's back, down into the of his spine, spreading them over hips and dimples. “Yeah,” Mickey was always good to go, but had been making sure to keep himself 'ready' every day since he came to understand that Ian was not some one-time fling.

“Stuff in your-”

“Nope. Here,” Mickey patted the bed to the right and Ian smiled, all teeth and crinkled, closed eyes, at the sound of the condom and lube tapping together. He didn't move much, still keeping their noses together, too busy smiling and stroking through Mickey's hair while Mickey absorbed the gentleness and how tender Ian was being with him. With his own eyes shut, every touch and breath, each shift of Ian's body against his from their breathing, heartbeats echoing... Mickey was making some deeply embedded memories; how Ian smelled, just how soft the skin of his hip was on his back, how Mickey could hear him smiling open-mouthed with each huff he let go, how large his hands really were because they seemed to cup Mickey's entire head. How fucking gentle he was, touching Mickey like he was made of lace or what made up butterfly wings, so kind with his fingers and the soft kisses he had begun pressing over Mickey's face from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, cheekbones and jaw and the sharp bow of his top lip.

“You ready?” Ian asked as he pulled back a little, Mickey opening his eyes to sincerity and fondness.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Ian smiled and dipped, his kiss nowhere near as reserved or gentle as his movements had been; it was hard and hot and desperate and Mickey's body pushed against Ian's with the shock of heat it caused, opening his mouth up to that thick tongue of Ian's, fighting against it with his own. Ian with his hidden need, again, _Christ_. His managed to kiss Mickey back into a messy state within minutes, rocking with him, moaning into his mouth, palming at his ass and leg until he had Mickey's right leg bent up and back, hugging against Ian's ribs for a moment, licking and growling into Mickey's mouth and with a shock, cold, wet fingers were stroking over Mickey's hole and pushing insistently. The guy's kisses had taken Mickey so far down into pleasure that he hadn't realised Ian had even moved. If this was Ian's method of love making, Mickey wanted nothing more than to have the guy love him for life – it was passionate and consuming as much as it was caring because, even though Ian was preparing him quickly, he was still doing it with practised fingers and caution, careful to do it properly without causing harm but doing it so that Mickey was grunting and fucking against him with how good it felt.

“Holy shit!” was probably the only thing Mickey could get out through his chorus of noises, clawing at Ian's head and neck when he dropped his face into Mickey's neck and began ravishing his skin with teeth and sharp sucks and soothing kisses and apologetic licks. Ian pegged his prostate a few times, the fucker grinning against Mickey's collar as Mickey choked and swore and lost his breath again.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian hissed as he pushed a third finger in and slowed a little, pushing up so he could look down. He added more lubricant because he was nothing if not overly considerate, always with Mickey's comfort at the forefront of his mind, and sat back a little to watch what he was doing. His face was overrun with fascination as he worked his fingers, absently taking the condom when Mickey offered it with two fingers, barely able to keep his eyes from rolling.

“C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,” Mickey urged, using his foot to push Ian's arm away. Ian wasted little time in getting himself wrapped and slippery, pulling Mickey up to sit so he could run his hands all over his chest and belly, kissing leisurely. Mickey's hands roamed Ian's back, pushing and pulling and digging grooves in with his fingers. With some forceful coercing, he got Ian to sit with his back against the headboard and kissed his enquiries silent, sinking down until Ian was in and around him, everywhere, consuming everything Mickey knew. With small levers of his thighs, Mickey got a nice, easy pace going and held onto Ian's shoulder for support, his other hand caught in Ian's, their fingers linked tight. Ian kept touching him with his free hand, strokes and kneads of his palm, looking up at Mickey as though he were something Ian couldn't quite believe was real, deep, adoring concentration etched into his strong face. Mickey tipped his head back and took his body with it, using a hand to hold himself up though he never released Ian's, if anything, he held tighter and Ian tensed his arm to keep him from falling too far, still pawing and touching and openly fascinated by the guy riding him slowly, using him, holding him down with his weight entirely pushing down on Ian's thighs.

After a few more minutes of intensity, Mickey stopped and tugged at himself a bit, pushing forward to capture Ian's open mouth with his own, licking into it, groaning happily when Ian's hand sank into his soft hair and massaged his scalp, the grip of their joined hands light now. He tried not to disconnect their bodies but, with trying to move from kneeling to curling his legs around Ian's waist, it happened anyway with the headboard causing a lot more moving to accommodate than thought.

“Easy,” Ian mumbled against Mickey's neck as he settled and went to push Ian's dick back into his body, wrapping his arms around Mickey's body before rocking them over slowly. He lay Mickey out, kissing all over his chest and sides and hips and back up, wet, open kisses and thick licks while Mickey gasped hard and carded his fingers through Ian's hair. God, he loved his hair; it was stuck up all over his head by the time he'd kissed his way back to Mickey's lips, taking one of Mickey's hands again, pressing his hips down to rock their dicks together, promises of what was to come, or so Mickey fucking hoped. Christ. Ian pushed Mickey's leg up as he moved back a little, trapping his knee under Ian's bicep, the softness of the inside of his arm stark in contrast to the power in the muscle under it. Mickey's head snapped back and he felt his throat click through his groan as Ian's girth and length pushed into his body smoothly, his ears snatching the sound of Ian losing himself with a deep moan. It was hotter than hell and with his wrecked hair and pinking nose and chest, it was stupidly adorable too.

“Always feels so fucking good, every damn time,” Ian whispered once he was settled and leaned back down to press his hand into the bed around Mickey's head, his other holding onto Mickey's thigh like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the planet, Mickey's hand locked with it. “You always feel so good. _You_ make me feel so good,” Ian praised, kissing Mickey's jaw as he rolled his hips deeply, taking on a slow pace that felt just right; deep, hard and controlled, made to get his feelings across, made to have Mickey _know_. “Want you to feel this good,” he whispered before he took Mickey's gaping lips in his and kissed him in tandem with his thrusts.

Ian didn't say anything again, worshipping Mickey's neck and shoulders with his mouth as he did as Mickey asked and _loved_ him. He kept his pace diligently, trying not to slow at all or speed up either, ruining Mickey with every passing minute of his emotionally charged ministrations. Mickey was losing his mind, gasping for breath, whining and moaning brokenly as he switched between pushing his head as far back as it would go with Ian's lips on his throat to rolling it from side to side when Ian moved back a bit, stroking over Mickey's leg while Mickey clawed his own thigh, Ian holding himself steady with a bulging arm that Mickey kissed whenever his mouth got close enough on a rock.

The pleasure spikes and heat and deep, pained groans Ian would expel had Mickey clawing at powerful shoulders desperately. He was certain his eyes were going to get stuck facing the inside of his head from how much they kept rolling, barely able to swallow due to his dried out throat, the only reason he wasn't floating off into space keeping his body pressed to the bed perfectly. _Ian_.

Ian nosed along Mickey's jaw and pressed a kiss to the hinge, “Gimme your lips, please? I'm... Mick. _Mickey_.”

Mickey stuffed his fingers into red hair and captained their kissing from then on, grunting when Ian pushed flush and kept still for as long as it took him to re-situate himself on his knees with Mickey in his lap, keeping one leg bent against his ribs and the other curling so Mickey had his foot hooked under Ian's calf. With this new position, Ian could let up on his hand and used it to map over Mickey's chest and over his ribs as he started thrusting hard and deep. Mickey kissed as much as he could, though, he was pretty sure it was sloppy and messy but Ian didn't seem to mind at all, licking and groaning along with him, matching him.

Lips numb and heart racing through his body, Mickey pulled his mouth away and held their foreheads together instead, noses touching, bumping and squishing into cheekbones every so often. Ian's fingers were shaking where he fidgeted them against Mickey's waist, tapping and bumping with his movements and he kept his hold gentle, soft and caring, sharing broken air with Mickey. His flighty fingers diverted from thigh to Mickey's cock and gripped tight, jerking and ripping a shout out of Mickey's throat, Ian swallowing half of it in a deep kiss he some how had the thought process to carry out perfectly. Mickey felt the burn, the tensing of his legs and stomach, the ache in his back growing to an insurmountable pressure for a few seconds and then he was falling, his moans and groans coming out in a stream of voice-shattered sobs, Ian seeing him through the blinding pleasure until he'd wrung everything from his erection and lungs.

“Keep-” Mickey croaked, opting to finish his urging with lazy kisses all over Ian's collar, bending tightly to do so, digging his free foot into the bed to get some kind of control into his body so he could take the harder pounding Ian suddenly burst with; he hung his head and chinned Mickey back into his line of sight and, expecting a kiss or for Ian to bury himself in Mickey's neck like usual, Mickey was surprised when the guy pushed him to lay back so he could see Ian's face clearly. Ian took his unsoiled hand and starting shakily pushing it up Mickey's body from hip to jaw and held there, thumbing the roughing skin while he jolted Mickey hard, trying to keep him a little still, or at least his head so he could keep the eye contact. It was insanely intimate but wasn't that what he'd asked for?

“Yeah?” Mickey whispered when Ian started nodding quickly, his other hand holding Mickey's waist in a grip that would leave a print for a few hours, surely.

“Yeah,” Ian breathed, “ _Yeah_. Chri-”

“Holy fuck,” Mickey's eyes widened as Ian's did, and then further at the look of absolute pleasure wash over his face, his open mouth and flushed cheeks, the adoration in his eyes. No wonder he'd hidden his face before because that was a look that nobody in their right mind could mistake for what it was – besotted, smitten, thundering into love with no idea what to do about it, but taking it on nonetheless. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone and Ian's face was lax and curling to a stupid, dumb smile as his thumb started stroking Mickey's jaw again and his other hand let up. Backside in the bowl of Ian's pelvis, Mickey wriggled and got a groan and closing eyes that screamed _dear God that's good, you little shit_.

Mickey smiled and pulled Ian to lay on his chest, not caring how messy or sweaty they were, simply enjoyed the bright smile he was being blinded by, nuzzling their heads together once more, stroking over Ian's nape and across his shoulders and back again, groaning at the size of his damn biceps from their exertion.

“Should we shower again?” Ian asked quietly a long while later, buried half in the sheets and half in Mickey's neck. It was comfortable and warm, lay with Ian all over him, lazily stroking over each other, legs slotted and curled together like puzzle pieces. Mickey didn't want to move.

Mickey hummed in agreement but locked his legs when Ian went to move away. He looked up to a softly amused smile and flicked his eyebrows up in a self-conscious manner, itching to thumb his lip but the skin under his hands was too good to stop touching. “You did what... uh, what I asked and I don't think I've ever felt that good so, yeah. You did what you wanted, too, I guess?” he chuckled, flashing his eyes up and then down to Ian's chest, shy again. If that sounded like a fucking thank you then that was that. He wanted to thank and thank and thank for what Ian had just done, but it felt like it wasn't needed. That had been intense and exactly what they should have, be allowed to have. It was theirs, their right, really, to have moments like that and perhaps more without the need to ask again, but with a look or touch that begged instead.

Ian kissed Mickey's forehead, mumbling, “Was perfect. Won't be the last time, either.” As reassuring as that was, and was meant to be, it hit Mickey like a brick of ice. Fuck, what time was it? “Don't. Don't, Mickey, don't. Just come shower and then we'll look, OK?”

Trying to relax as Ian pulled out and away, pulling Mickey with him with an insistent hand and a forced smiled, Mickey nodded solemnly. “But what if you run late? You can't skip out on a flight, man,” Mickey reminded him gently, much as it fucking hurt to do so and Ian stopped half way from the bed to the bathroom door, turning to look at Mickey with a heavy sigh and an agreeing, sad bob of his head. He let go of Mickey's hand and padded to the arch, swung his top half around it to peer at the clock and Mickey's world shattered with the slump of Ian's shoulders and the slightly annoyed, mostly gutted noise Ian tried to hide.

Ian quickly regained his composure and quick marched them both into the bathroom, quiet and buzzing with annoyance though Mickey knew it wasn't aimed at him. Ian quickly filled the sink and pottered around for a wash cloth, some shower gel and a towel; he pushed Mickey around gently until he was sat on the counter top, watching Ian carefully go about washing Mickey's skin with precision and delicacy.

“You don't have to do this,” Mickey said quietly and Ian thinned his lips with a sure shake of his head.

“Yes I do,” Ian said, wiping over Mickey's ribs sweetly, “Because if I don't keep touching you, if I don't concentrate on you and what you feel like and how patient you are right now, I'll lose my shit and I... I won't-” Ian's hands shook so violently that he dropped the wash cloth and shoved them into his hair, stepping back with a moan of agony. What the hell had that clock shown him?!

“Hey,” Mickey hopped off the side and wrapped Ian in his arms quickly, “Hey.” Ian upset was not a thing Mickey wanted to see right now, or ever again for that matter, but focussing on him and his turmoil pushed Mickey's own fears to the back of his mind. Ian had hidden himself really well, not letting on passed a few heated words and sorrowful looks as to just how hard this was hitting him. “Why didn't you say somethin'?” Mickey asked against his neck, Ian clutching at him so tightly he was worried he might tear apart.

“I didn't want to upset you any more than... I didn't want to hurt you any more than I already will, Moo,” Ian said wetly and Mickey closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“It ain't you hurtin' me. It's this fucked up schedule, not you. Not you, Ian,” Mickey assured him though all it did was make him sob against his shoulder and Mickey's eyes stung fiercely, his heart broke a little more, his stomach hit the floor.

“I am though. Maybe not intentionally, but it's because of me leaving that you've looked so destroyed for the last few days.”

Mickey's faced crumpled and he had to steady himself a little before he spoke – he hadn't realised that he'd walked around looking like that, thought he'd masked it expertly but thinking on it, his dads had seen through him so obviously he hadn't managed it well enough to hide it from Ian's keen eye either. “It's not you. You leaving is out of my hands, out of yours. It hurts that I won't... that you won't be with me. I've gotten used to your lanky ass and stupid smiles. It's _not_ you, Ian, it's not. Don't think you're hurtin' me.”

“It's killing me to know you aren't going to be around me either, you know? Like,” Ian sniffled and pushed back to look at Mickey's face, his eyes red and wet and fuck, that was a horrid image, “Like I know we've had days apart and shit, but I've known, the entire time, that you're _here_ somewhere, in the resort. Not around me, but you're there, you know? And now... fuck, you're gonna be out of my reach and I hate it, Mick, I fucking _hate_ that. I don't wanna let go of you because I won't know where you are. Shit, I won't even be able to ask one of your guys either.”

Mickey smiled a little and thumbed a runaway tear from Ian's cheek, “You ask my guys about me?”

Ian chuckled and grinned with a little wince, “Y-yeah. Well, not clearly, but they got it. It was a few 'how was practice?' or 'day going well, guys?' but they always beamed at me in passing and said 'He's fine, Red, no worries' and that was that.” God, he loved them.

Mickey nuzzled the side of Ian's face and pulled his face down to his shoulder, “I never knew.”

“See, I could walk around and know you were somewhere, doing all right...” Ian said and Mickey screwed his eyes shut, breathing in the smell of his skin. They stood quietly for a time until the shrill of Ian's phone ringing in his pocket on the bathroom floor had them both physically jumping.

Even though he didn't move back much, Mickey managed to sound authoritative when he said, “You gotta answer that.”

“No, I don't,” Ian argued, flipping the vibrating set of jeans the bird really hard, as if it would work.

“I don't want Svetlana breakin' down my fuckin' door, man,” Mickey chuckled as Ian turned to face away from it, the room silent suddenly. It started ringing immediately. “She's scary, Toes, and she's Russian, wouldn't even _dare_ doubt she couldn't bust a fire-door in.”

“But-”

Much as it fucking pained him to push this because this was the start of Ian being taken away from him, it had to be done, it was necessary and not something he had the power to change even though he wanted to, so bad, he had to push it. “You gotta.”

Ian begrudgingly let go and snatched up his boxer briefs before he fished out the phone and sighed heavily at it, like the device was the root of all pain, and unlocked it, the thing ringing for the third time in his hand and causing Mickey to jump and Ian to nearly smash it. “Hello, Lana,” he wandered into the bedroom but not too far, just an idle walk anyone did on the phone, so Mickey edged to the pile of clothes and put his underwear and jeans back on. “Yeah- yeah, they are, right inside the room. Skates went into the team... yeah, after the show. Yeah, I'm with him, like I'd be anywhere else? No. It's fucking hurting is what it is, Lana, not easy for either of us but yeah... OK. Really? _Shit_ , OK, yeah. Yep. Bye.”

Ian turned to Mickey as he rubbed a hand down his face and he looked ill and like the grim reaper was stood behind Mickey. “You gotta go,” Mickey said, no need to question that because it was pretty obvious by the defeated cloak settling over Ian.

Ian's voice was hard and broken when he said “I gotta go.” Mickey felt his knees go a bit but managed to keep steady and quiet like Ian as they dressed entirely and made like everything in the room needed cleaning up or straightening out, like they weren't dancing with a pink elephant.

“Mick?” Ian said, stopping where he was in the arch, dropping the magazine he'd found. “ _Mickey._ ”

Mickey threw the pillow he had at the bed so hard it flew over the other side, striding across the space with hard shakes of his head, thinning his lips to keep the noise of his breaking heart from getting out, eyes welling up so fast that Ian was a blur after two steps. “Don't leave, please don't-” Mickey begged as soon as he crashed against the solid frame of his skater, his guy, his twinkly toed flame, arms circling hard around Ian's neck as Ian's twisted and gripped around Mickey's waist and back, clutching and clawing at his shirt, “Please. Don't leave me.”

“God, I don't want to, I don't. I promise I don't!” Ian swore blind, hugging like Mickey, like he didn't want to ever let go. The door started wrapping and Mickey very nearly threw Ian into the bathroom with the purpose of locking him in there and lying through his teeth that he'd not seen Ian since the ceremony. Svetlana would kill him. The knocking started again and Mickey squeezed tighter, Ian burying himself in Mickey's neck, wetting his skin. “I made you cry!”

“Shut up, you're cryin' too.”

“ _Ian?!_ ” came through the door; it wasn't demanding or angry or pushy but questioning and pitiful and Mickey fucking hated the sound. “Mickey...I know it's not fair and I feel so evil for this but he has to come with me.”

“No he doesn't!” Ian shouted as Mickey went into adult-mode and tried to disentangle their lock.

“Yes he does,” Mickey said and Ian closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment as Svetlana's motherly tone barked _yes he fucking well does, get your ass out here right now!_ Followed by a soft thud against the door. “I'm sorry, I am, but you can't ignore this. It's time to go. The buggy is waiting downstairs and the bags are already on their way to the train station. I can't make them wait any longer than I have already. Come on, I want to say goodbye to Mikhaylo. He is nice boy, I would like to show him I am not Lucifer come to steal half of his soul,” Svetlana's voice was very gentle and coercing and it had Ian sniffing, taking Mickey by the hand to open the door. It took him a few seconds of staring at it before he actually pulled the lock and opened it, though, shamefaced when his coach appeared with a guilty look. “I'm sorry,” she said and opened her arms to pull them both to her, kissing Mickey's temple fiercely.

“It's not your fault,” Ian said.

Mickey nodded, squeezing her briefly before stepping back, “Really isn't. Not his, not yours... it's just. Hard.”

Svetlana nodded in understanding but hooked her arm around Ian's waist to stop him from fleeing back into the room as Mickey stepped back again, leaning against the door frame weakly. “You want me to come down with you?” he knew he'd be refused and he'd fucking hate every second but it felt right to ask, pathetic as his voice was.

Ian looked deeply touched by the question, but shook his head firmly. “No. I don't think I could deal with watching you watching me drive off. You'd... no, I'm not putting you through that, I won't. So, if Lana will let go so I can hug you and kiss you goodbye?” Ian asked, looking at her defiantly. She let go quickly and put her hands up, smirking the small distance she moved away, looking out of the window at the pitch sky. Ian was wrapping himself around Mickey before he could stand straight, a tight hold that felt so final it hurt. It wasn't, he'd see the guy again, but it still felt like he would never.

“Gonna miss you,” Mickey breathed before kissing all of his memories against soft lips, the happiness and the sheer wonder he felt at knowing the guy, for having him around and promises of _I'll see you soon._

“Will miss you, too, Moo,” Ian whispered into his ear, “I want you to turn around and go in your room. I'll leave once the door locks. We can pretend I'm just going to bed or something, yeah? I don't want you to see.. I don't want to cause you any more upset than you're already experiencing, OK? Much as I don't want you seeing- Mickey, I can't watch either.”

Mickey couldn't say anything to that, just kissed him gently and pushed Ian back as the skater dropped his hands, looking up at the ceiling for a second, and then he was smiling and winking and his eyes were red rimmed, wet and threatening to spill down his pale cheeks and Mickey nearly said _something_. Ian stepped back and waved, nodding for Mickey to turn around and lock the door but his feet wouldn't move, and his tears were running freely. Ian gave him a look that screamed _I'm the cause for this_ and begged _please turn around, please turn around, please_. Mickey licked his teeth and squared his shoulders, took a steadying breath and gave a stupid little lift of his hand, saluting Ian in a _I'll see ya tomorrow, kid,_ manner and Ian beamed wetly at him. Then the door was locked and Mickey slid to the floor and swore passionately into the denim over his knees, bit his knuckles to keep quiet as his ears strained to hear footsteps leading away. Nothing. It was silent.

“Fuck.”

 

 

His stupid door was knocking again. Mickey sat on the sofa, staring at the curtains while idly twisting his fingers in and out of grasps, resting his elbow on his knees though they'd been there so long that the contact spots were completely numb. It was ten, an hour after Ian had taken off and Mickey hadn't slept a wink, hadn't even tried despite being emotionally and physically exhausted. He didn't want to tempt a terror and was barely keeping his racing heart from inducing an attack. His mind was numb from overuse and it couldn't conjure a traitorous thought if it tried, so he was safe from that bringing on some kind of panic. His heart was complaining though, trying, fighting, bleeding. There was only so much television he could watch to ignore it.

“Mickey!” Louie wrapped again, his voice too damn loud and cheerful. Mickey was very inclined to jump up and take his teeth out. “Bro, you up? We gotta go in a few... _shit_. Oh...Moo?” so he'd realised then. Mickey hung his head and pursed his mouth for a few seconds before he got up and dragged tired feet to the door, flinging it open without looking, already wandering through to his bedroom to heft up his carry-on and pull up the handle of his suitcase. “Mick, man-”

“Please don't, Lou,” Mickey said quietly to the floor, eyeing his luggage for defaults. “The kit already movin', yeah?” his hockey kit, skates and sticks and even his pressed suits had all been taken by some elite collection team an hour before, leaving Mickey to pack his basic clothes and toiletries away. Doing a sweep of his room after packing away Ian's shirt carefully, Mickey had spotted a watch on the bedside table that he certainly did not own. Whether by intention or not, Ian had left it and Mickey had put it on without a second thought, hiding it away under his long sleeved Henley, his cardigan further armour from the world.

“Don't put up a wall, please? I won't say I know, I understand, 'cause I don't, nobody could 'cause they ain't you. But, dude, I love you and you gotta know I don't expect you to be all rainbows and smiles this morning... none of us expect that, but, we don't want you shutting down on us either. You know we love you and you know you don't gotta put no faces on for us,” Louie said, coming over to hug Mickey in one of his world-blocking embraces that felt really comforting and safe. Mickey leaned into him and nodded. “I love you and if you gotta cry or feel like you need to curl up and sleep, you come to me and curl up on my lap. You're my rock, bro, and I'm yours too. Lord knows I've been a fuckin' stupid shit recently, but you're my family and I won't watch you crumble to bits man, not without giving you everything I got to lean on first, even if you kick my ass for my behaviour.”

Mickey nodded again and Louie kissed his head, “ _Asshole_. I'm fuckin' drained so you're damn lucky. You do have a new ass that needs tearing, but I just don't have the energy to attempt shit right now. I do think you're a class dick, though, you stupid fuckin' idiot. I love you, though, so... can we get the fuck outta here? I just wanna go home.” Christ he was tired.

Louie nodded and smiled agreeably, leading the way, “S'go, Mick.”

Gentle hello's and morning's were all Mickey got, really, and a breakfast roll he couldn't eat as he walked to the main building to check out. Bart had taken his bags on the buggy and nobody questioned why he chose to walk, Louie sheepish at his side, trying to hide his fat lip and rouge nose from exasperated and disappointed eyes. He smoked slowly, thankful for Louie's calm silence and occasional shoulder bump that reassured Mickey he wasn't alone.  
  
He'd sobbed to himself in the dead of the early hours that everyone had left, they always leave. But looking at his hockey stick and Louie's gold marker pen smilie face on the bottom told him that no, not always and those who did usually came back. He had no idea why he felt such a deep rooted terror about being left, abandoned, as he'd no real reason to, but it was there – maybe it was normal, something people had, this fear, because they were around people they loved so consumingly that they couldn't bare to think of them leaving, never to return. Mickey had always feared being alone in his life, growing up alone, living alone, having no one but himself for company but he didn't have that, and, thanks to Ian's dad and Dean, he'd not have that, ever, really. But it still lived in his fibre, that fear, and Louie understood it well enough. He'd found out the fear one high school night getting high with Mickey, admitting it first himself. Louie had said it, and Mickey had said 'same' so seriously that they'd fallen silent and held hands and that was that; cemented knowledge to be silently understood and considered without a word being breathed of it.

“Checking out,” Louie said to the clerk, handing over his keycard and passport and Olympic ID card, Mickey following suit. The man behind the desk smiled and didn't ask for names as he had everything needed in front of him, taking less than a minute to check them out and push their ID's and passports back.

“It has been our pleasure to look after you and we hope that your stay has been one you will remember for a long time to come,” he said genuinely with a sincere bow of his head, smiling brightly. “Congratulations and safe travels.”

“Thanks, man!” Louie was cheerful and Mickey shook his head fondly.

“Won't be forgetting this place, ever, man,” Mickey said with a quirk of his lips, “Thank you.”

“Our pleasure, Sir, I assure you.” part and part, Mickey thought, grinning to himself as he followed Louie's zig-zagging wander through other athletes and around sofas towards the main doors. Thompson was standing out in the snow, waiting, herding.

“You OK there kid?” He asked as Mickey approached.

“Holdin' up OK, coach,” Mickey replied honestly because in all fairness, he was. He was too tired to feel anything. _I'm going home_. Even if Ian was out of reach, at least he'd be in the same country most of the time and his dads would be greeting him at the gate and that was something, wasn't it? It's all he had to hold on to.

“All right, son, all right,” Thompson patted his shoulder and began shouting out names and orders and had them all on the train in an orderly fashion in no time. Mickey sat with Louie, a table between them, staring out of the window as the countryside rolled by in a blur.

“Did you apologise?” Mickey asked, his voice very slow as he turned to look at his friend intently staring down at his Ipad.

“I went for a walk last night and he was gone when I tried this morning,” Louie sighed, tapping on the screen a few times before he looked up and sucked in his lip. “Was gonna tell you but you don't need to hear my shit today. Coach said he went into Seoul early to buy something for his niece and nephew but I don't believe him.”

This was a weird distraction. “What d'you mean?”

“Went alone... Personally, I think he's got off the flight and has booked in somewhere in the city, flying home in a few days or somethin'. He ain't gonna sit through a flight with me, man, and I don't blame him,” Louie looked utterly disgusted with himself and so, Mickey kicked him under the table. Jake was supposed to be seated in their row on the plane, from what Coach had said, one side of Mickey with Louie the other side. Perfect buffers and hand holding buddies for when shit went south with Mickey's phobia. He kicked Louie again, harder. “Fucker!”

“Part one of the ass kickin',” he scowled, “Hope it bruises. He shouldn't have to do anythin' like that because of your stupid fuckin' idiot self. Man, why don't you listen to me? This could have been avoided, nothin' wrong, no pain or whatever. Now he's possibly flyin' home alone because you... Louie, you're a colossal fuckwit, you know that?”

Louie nodded, not an ounce of betrayal or disagreement in his body. “Bro, I'm a cunt.”

“Yep,” Mickey popped the 'p' and turned to look out of the window again, Louie burying his face in his Ipad, quiet descending as hostesses came through with hot drinks and snacks. Mickey took a coffee and pushed it to the window, watching the vapour, drifting into the smell.

“I uh, I dunno if you've seen this but it was only uploaded about an hour ago,” Louie said gently, pushing his Ipad across the table top towards Mickey's limp fingers. Mickey looked down as the metallic edge touched his thumb and frowned at YouTube staring up at him. “It's for you, bro.”

“You givin' me the Pad? Like, to make up for my buddy system gettin' fucked over 'cause you need a chastity belt?”

“ _No_ , Jesus. The video. Weren't you listening?” Louie chided and then softened, rubbing his face, “'Course you weren't. Sorry. The video, watch it. It's for you.”

Mickey scoffed and picked up the Ipad. “What makes you think that?” he asked as he turned it this way and that until the screen stopped trying to resize.

“It's an entertainment channel I subscribed to ages ago. They follow winter athletes, hockey games, skaters and all that. This seems very personal, well, the written piece does anyway and the video, too. I swear dude, it's aimed right at you. I dunno, just...” Louie bent his hand over the edge and tapped the giant play button, quickly pushing the earbuds into Mickey's ears.

Mickey paused it with a disgruntled look at his friend as he repositioned the ear pieces and read the title and the small description under it. The title was Ian Gallagher's Mad World. That didn't seem like anything to do with Mickey, if he was honest.  
  
"During an interview in South Korea between rehearsals for something top secret, I caught up with Mr Gallagher rink-side and asked him many questions, but I asked him about a particular set I'd just seen him perform (the above video) and wondered at where his mind went when he was in 'the zone'. It was as if he were some place else. His answer was sweet and heartfelt and left me wondering what exactly it was that he could see in his mind:

_Everyone has a place they can run to when life becomes too much, or too harsh, too frightening. Even if the world seems mad, maybe messy... you can find a place you can go to where it's calm, somewhere you can let go, somewhere to be, you know? Never mind the kaleidoscope of noise, or the hectic every day, your place will always catch you. I have a place, I found it during these Games. It isn't a 'somewhere' stuck in time, but a thought I can take with me everywhere and that way, even when I have no spare time or I am overrun in my daily life or far from home, I can still feel myself wrapped in it's embrace no matter where I am. I'm...safe. I'm happy (he smiled very warmly here, almost if he were drifting back into his thoughts)._

**So what do you think of?**

_I only have to think of an ice rink lined with fairy lights. I found myself alone there, one night, my head a mess of noise but... even though it felt like a very dark moment for me, there was a lone light that demanded my attention and I got lost in the colour of its glass. I fell in love with that place the second I realised that, no matter how messy that day had been, this beautiful place had brought such a pure light into my life, a memory I would be able to keep with me forever, and suddenly I wanted to share every mess I could, with it._

**That sounds beautiful.**

_It really was- is. I see it every time I close my eyes, you see (he laughed). I see the lights that cleared my mind and made me forget the world around me._

I was very intrigued by this, right then, as he smiled so genuinely that I couldn't help but ask what colour these lights had been. He said 'blue, like the sky and the ocean and the clarity of ice all in one'. This man has a way with words. I can only wonder at such a place, for it clearly brings out the best in Ian as, when he thinks of it, his performance becomes a dream. Blue is a calming colour, or so they say, but they also say it is cold and harsh and emotionless and that, from watching Ian, is clearly a lie – he thinks of it and he becomes warmth and love and gentle serenity. I wish him all the best for his career as this man is one to watch – Stuart Kinsley. (you can find the full interview on our webpage, just click the link below)"

The video was black and white and started with Ian laughing as he pushed off the rink wall, away from the interviewer and his camera, and he continued to smile as he pushed around in a circle with one leg out behind him and his arms wide. Ian gave a wave to what the video showed as half a grand piano in the corner of the rink on a carpeted square – that could possibly be Jake given that this was during the secret meetings – and the pianist said something to which Ian gave a loud _yes, perfect!_ and pulled up short in the centre of the ice. All noise in the arena dropped as the first chimes of the keys sounded and it was Mad World, but it sounded far more heartbreaking as only a piano, with Mickey's chest already cracked and sore. His eyes stung before Ian had even done anything as the guy filming zoomed in a little, Ian's face down to the ice but the warm and dopey smile curling his lips and brightening his face was a smile he had often been subjected to. Ian kicked a little and spun slowly, lifting his hands above his head and twirling them gracefully but even with a delicate movement made to draw the eye, Mickey was focused on Ian's face softening further, clear that he was thinking deeply of this place. Mickey knew that place, of course he did, he just didn't realise how important it was to Ian but then, he had never said anything nor had Mickey asked.

Ian moved around the ice to the music very gently compared to how he normally moved, arms gliding outward and in, a leg lifting and curling around his other when he would twirl mid-glide or turn to face in the opposite way. He didn't jump nor did he force any kind of flamboyant display into this tranquil dream of his, he just simply moved with all the grace he possessed and it was hypnotising and beautiful. Ian's hair would flutter with his speed and his cheeks became flushed from his exertion and the chill of the rink but never did the smile drop from his face. Back and forth, swaying and gliding in arcs and figures of eight, his long body leaning into and out of his lines like ribbon through fingers, in the breeze, gentle and sure as much as it was powerful. Whenever Ian flew by the camera, Mickey could hear the slice of his blades through the ice but that was all; there was never a heavy breath or the sound of a body moving. As Ian always did skate, it was as though he was air, a projection, a mere extension of the ice he was on and yet he was solid and orchestrated. The interviewer was right – it was as though Ian was some place else entirely, lost and found all at once and he looked so peaceful as he shot around and turned, hopped, skipped, twirled and skidded to a stop. There was applause and Ian grinning, waving a little and bowing like an idiot and then he was skating back towards the camera and his laugh was bashful and the sound hurt to hear because all Mickey wanted to do was reach in and touch the beaming, pinked face of that guy but the screen faded and a load of _subscribe here_ and _read the full interview here_ links popped up with a dude talking about other skate related jargon.

It was a year later, maybe five minutes, maybe half a minute, when Louie tapped Mickey's leg under the table with his foot to get his attention. Louie looked both pitiful and loving when he smiled softly. “You know that was you, right?” he said quietly, to which Mickey gave a little frown. He felt numb and like he'd been hit with a hammer all at once. “The place, Mick, that he thinks about and dances around like he's swan lake in winter? That's not a place really. S'a person.” Mickey could only stare at the blank screen, where Ian had been, looking at his own stunned and hurting relfection. 

 

Mickey was panicking and he was panicking like nothing on earth would ever be right again, like he was seconds from death and it was all because their gate number and their row numbers had just been called. His heart was pounding and his hands and feet were sweating, his head hurt, his sight was blurring and whiting and he was pretty sure the voice panting _no, no, no, no, no_ was his, though his ears were so fuzzy with white noise that he wasn't sure on that.

“Holy shit, Mick!” Louie came from behind on the left, sinking down with Mickey as he went to his ass heavily. “I leave for the bathroom and none of you turds kept even a lick of attention on the worst phobic in our group? The fuck is with you?!”

“Oh God,” Seth was somewhere, “I turned to pick up his carry on. Swear to you, man, he wasn't like this a second ago, I fuckin' swear.”

“He's not lying, Lou. He kept that hidden, you know he does that,” Bart hissed. Mickey was losing himself in swirly carpet designs and a swing of dizziness. “Did he not take a sedative?”

A bag dropped on the floor next to his leg and Mickey nearly threw up all over it. “He's gotta be given it by qualified medical personnel. This lady here is one of them, so give her some room. Louie, move.”

Kind, gloved hands stroked over Mickey's shaking ones and held tight as he gripped them like a life line. “Hello, Mickey. I'm Lola, I'm part of the US teams medical group, so you may have seen me around,” she said, sweet and gentle even though Mickey was surely breaking her fingers and didn't even look up at her. “I've got the shot Mr Mowse left for you. You know it goes in your thigh, and then an anti-sickness shot too, in the other thigh. Would you prefer it if I got your jeans down or do you want one of your team to do it?”

“Louie will help you,” Thompson's voice was low, “Guys, it's only us lot in here but still, form a shield.”

“Coach!”

Mickey felt someone settle behind him and pull his back into their lap, strong arms holding his back to a solid chest. Mickey's entire body felt heavy and his head was lolling and his breathing heavy and harsh. He was so close to passing out that he wanted it to consume him already, but it just wouldn't. “Done this before. Normally he's not this out of it and he fights so I hold him this way, best way to keep him from hurtin' himself, you know?” Louie was fuzzy and warm but Mickey's thighs were suddenly chilly and someone was touching him with weird hands. He went into self-protection mode and started to fight the hold his friend had him in. Who _the fuck_ was touching him?

“Seth-”

“Got 'em!” Mickey's lower legs were captured and dead weighted. “Easy, Mick. Nobody's tryna hurt you, just givin' you some of your dad's medication.”

“Yeah, Moo, you remember that? Just a two little pin pricks and you'll be as chilled as the ice we skate on, bro, just...” there was some mutterings and Mickey frowned, trying to look down at his legs but Louie was hell bent on forcing his head back by way of stuffing his chin over Mickey's shoulder and not budging. “OK, so you remember when you bought Thor home in that fuckin' spider costume last Halloween? You remember how I nearly leaped out my window to my death, screamin' all over my apartment and getting up on the kitchen side to get away from him, the fucker chasing me thinking it was a game?”

 _That_ fucking hurt. Mickey tried to kick.

“Easy.”

“... and you fell, literally fell over in the hall, laughing so much you nearly cried yourself dry?” and that really hurt. Mickey moved his entire body and managed to dislodge Louie, cracking his crown off the blond's nose. “Shit- No, no, it's good, I'm OK.”

“All right, Mickey, it's done now,” came Lola's voice, his jeans back up as his head started to empty. “The crew are aware of this aren't they? And he's had this before so there's nothing to worry about?”

“They know and nothing for you to fret over. He'll sleep solidly for a few hours and then we'll wake him and take him to the bathroom and make him drink and then he'll go out again.” Whoever was talking, the words were dancing in the air around Mickey and he smiled stupidly. He felt like he was on a water bed, or jell-o, numb and floaty and like he could sleep forever and chase stars at the same time. Everything was so slow, his own voice when he slurred, Louie's questions, whatever they were... who the fuck was talking? They sounded so caring and sweet. Loud too. “I've done this rodeo with him few times, Miss, and though _I_ remember, he never d-”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot, ever, thank you, any of you, for the love and support you've given me and my AU over these months and I am proud and honoured to bring it home to you guys. Yeah, I got another chapter to go, but... yeah. I love you all. Thank you, so, so, so much. I'll probably gush all over you with the next one hehehe :} i can't thank you enough <3
> 
> come find me on tumblr! my tag is @youknowyoutried :D


	23. I knew It Right From The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're some kind of heaven  
> That's all that I need  
> I found it in you  
> ~ Hurts (Some Kind Of Heaven)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Look, it's me and I bring closure of a sort :} I cannot say sorry enough for how long this less-than-OK piece has taken me to write. I have been really unwell and then big life things stepped up to the plate and I had no choice but to take a seat for a while. But here it is and i can't say thank you enough for your patience and the love i'm still getting for this work :} it has been a long road, but here's the final fork!
> 
> yeah, i said 'fork'. You think this 'verse is over? Just you wait! :D i didn't create a series for it for no reason, now :}  
> WARNING: there is no warning! cheese and fluff, maybe, but that's it...oh, END. The end is here. There's no panic, no fights, no arguing, no sex (sorry, it just doesn't fit in here, and you got plenty to re-read if you want it lmao dirty dirty). This is 12 pages worth, may not seem it, it but it is and the ache in my arms will back me up lol in the notes at the bottom, there's a link to the playlist that I made for this :} if you're interested. Happy reading!

 

_**Ian Calling** _

 

Mickey smiled at his phone sitting in the hands free slot against his dash, fishing his earphones from the neck of his shirt quickly, sparing at glance at Louie sleeping like the dead in the passenger seat.

“Hey,” he greeted, the past few days of stress seeping out through his feet at the little chuckle he got through the line.

“ _Hey, you. On your way home?”_

“Yeah, 'bout half way. Just passed Star Mill, I think.” Too many places named 'Mill' out here. It was beautiful and green but after a few hours, it all looked the same.

“ _You took the toll road?”_ Ian sounded lightly surprised and like he was moving around.

“Yeah, don't mind though,” Mickey sniffed and rolled his eyes a little. The heating system in his car was nice but fuck, it dried his eyes right out. “The 94 had a fuck load of delays 'cause of collisions and whatever. This way has had one so far and a couple sets of roadworks so, if I gotta pay a toll to get home an hour or seven earlier, I'll pay the toll. No skin off my nose, 'cause now I'm thinkin' about it, it's comin' outta Lou's wallet,” Mickey grinned, glancing across briefly as Louie with a his mouth wide open, face smashed against the window. He'd be cleaning that, too.

Ian laughed and Mickey's cheeks bunched up with his smile. _“You'll be passin' the back of where I live then, huh?”_

“Yeah, didn't wanna go _through_ MC, heard there's a family there who'll steal the wheels off your car while you're drivin' the fuckin' thing,” Mickey snorted when Ian scoffed and sang _go fuck yourself._ “How'd it go in Colorado?” Mickey asked, flicking his indicator to overtake. He checked his mirrors and cast his eye over his shoulder to double check as Ian let out a heavy breath and hummed, Mickey hitting the gas a little too hard at the sound.

“ _Yeah, so, I'm still here,”_ God did he sound pissed.

“Thought you were leavin'?” to go to LA and then home in two days. To come back into Mickey's life; no more Skype calls to be interrupted by family calls or career bullshit, no more phone calls like this, no more texts but actual words and touches. It'd been a damn month last week. Mickey wasn't best pleased but then he knew it wasn't Ian's fault, and Ian was probably far more pissed off than he was. Certainly sounded like he was, cursing to himself.

“ _Yeah, so did I. Turns out that no, I've gotta stay a bit longer to finalise events and routines that fall in the guidelines and rule books and all that utter shit. Like they haven't had me a week already? Could have done this days ago but no, I get it dropped on me today as I was packing to get my ass in a plane and get this tour over and done with. Got like, two or three more days here now, something like that anyway,”_ Mickey could see Ian in his head, hanging his own down, rubbing his jaw, tapping the floor with a heavy foot. _“Yet another week added on. Not happy. Makes me rethink my whole career choice,”_ Ian sighed and Mickey wanted to reassure him that it was only days, he'd have plenty of time off soon, but he didn't – it'd only sound like he was pandering when there was no need. It was a shitty situation and no amount of _it'll be OK's_ would soothe it.

“I said _no_!” Louie barked from his slumber, the sudden shout giving Mickey such a fright that he swerved into the next lane, checking his mirrors and reseating himself with a scowl. Thankfully, the road was pretty quiet and no 18-wheelers were creeping on him. Fucking sleep-talker.

“Mother _fucker_ , I hate him,” Mickey hissed and Ian sent a laugh trickling into his ear.

“ _Louie?”_

Mickey coughed and double checked his mirrors to make sure the five-o weren't tailing him from that swing he'd done, “Yah. You hear him?”

“ _No, what'd he do? Is he winding you up 'cause you're on the phone again?”_ Ian was finding this amusing. Wouldn't in a minute because this wasn't Louie mooning Mickey while at their hotel, or Louie moaning and fucking his pillow for shits and giggles or Louie yelling _Mickey! Put your dick away! I told you, I don't wanna fuck you. I know you're desperate but_... That punch Mickey hit his titty with was worth the screaming and the scowls he still got.

“He sleep talks,” Mickey said offhand, “Asshole just yelped somethin' and scared the fuck outta me so I swerved into another lane.”

“ _Oh shit.”_

Mickey gave a sidewards nod and flicked his light again, ready to overtake an RV covered in glitzy shit, “Oh shit is right.”

Ian snorted and was quite for a couple of minutes, both content to listen to the other shuffle or sniff or whatever, having gotten used to the silences where'd they'd probably stare at one another had they the choice, the quiets comforting. _“So, how did it all go?”_

Mickey blew a whistle, low and heavy and he gave no shit if Louie woke up now, was tempted to swing back into his lane now he'd passed the RV, clack Louie's skull off the glass maybe. “As you'd imagine,” Mickey supplied, checking his rear view as he ducked back in, “He didn't wanna go to start with, you know that, and then he got stupidly excited until we passed into Detroit and then I had to lock the doors 'cause, as we got closer to Jake's apartment complex, I wasn't sure if he'd attempt a fuckin' drop and roll out the door. Seriously,” Mickey chuckled as Ian laughed, “He was terrified. _Terrified_. Don't care how much of an asshole I am but I found it hilarious, actually laughed in his face. His own damn fault. He told me he'd sort it and kept planting his feet so... I gotta step in and drag, right? Can't help it if Louie looked like the fuckin' reaper was tryin' to kiss him. I was inconvenienced, least I could do is enjoy his stressin'.”

“ _Inconvenienced,”_ Ian parroted cheekily and Mickey wished he was in the car because he'd maybe pinch his leg, maybe grope him, who knew.

“Yep, sure was.”

“ _Were not. You wanted to do it you fuckin' liar!”_

Mickey inhaled in mock scandal and grinned out at the approaching, endless road ahead of him, “Yeah, yeah. Have you ever met sad Louie?” Ian made a negative hum and Mickey flicked his brow up, “Exactly. You don't wanna either. It was long overdue and I _hate_ meddling but I had to...” Mickey did feel awkward still, for having stepped in and meddled as he had but he felt it necessary.

“ _So what happened after you muscled him out of the car?”_

Mickey glanced to see Louie shift, head sliding further down the glass, “He tried to run of course. I'm not kiddin', tried to bolt down the street. So, I chased him and got the back of his shirt and told him to man the fuck up 'cause I did not just drive over five hours for him to chicken out on me. Jake already knew we were comin' so, we turn around and head back to the buildin' and he's standin' next to the doorman with the most painful look on his face. Ian, it hurt to look at him. He looked like disappointment and heartbreak and all kinds of desperate, like he wanted to touch Lou and like he wanted to turn the hell around and never look his way again. Kinda horrible really.”

“ _Jesus.”_

“So,” Mickey took a heavy breath and shifted in his seat a bit, “The first hour in Jake's apartment was so tense I swear I could of gathered the air and beat them both to bits with it. They barely looked at each other, didn't speak, didn't fuckin' move, man. I got 'em outside and tried to break the tension with an activity but like fuck could I find anythin' that could do it so, took them to the hotel we stayed at. I'd booked adjoinin' rooms 'cause of my uh, terrors, and told them to go into Louie's and hash it out but you know, I’d be next door and if they got too aggressive... I have _never_ heard a fight like it. I think punches might have been thrown but I heard no shouts for help or saw any bruises or blood after, but damn. _Vicious_. I tried to block it out but I _had_ to listen on the off chance that they'd start a brawl. Wouldn't put that passed them again, not after Korea.”

Ian agreed with a hum, sounding like he was eating but deeply curious so Mickey rolled his neck a little and carried on with the last four days. “Second day was not much better but at least they spoke to each other. 'K, it was laced with bitchy comments and sarcasm and scowls but still, progress. Third day we went out and I stayed back, trailed them, but far enough that I couldn't hear anythin'. By the evening, my feet were close to fallin' off but they were smiling and bumpin' each other and behavin' like fuck all had ever happened. Was great, I mean, about fuckin' time, but yeah. Fourth day, yesterday, I got told to go do whatever I wanted and I went and found the ice centre, bumped into some rival players and had a day of it. Louie didn't come back last night and I picked him up from Jake's before we hit the road. Fucker fell asleep within minutes so I actually don't know what's what, but he was smilin' and I swear to fuckin' God he's got a hickey on his ribs. I know they hit each other but Jake's hand ain't that small and Lou went cherry red when I spotted it while he acclimatized his giant ass to my car with a cat stretch.”

Ian _ooooh'ed_ and almost squeaked, his voice clear and happy when he spoke, _“So you think it's all sorted and they've worked it out and are makin' a go of it or just... I dunno, got stupid, fucked and are friends again?”_

“No idea. All I know is there was smiles and almost fuckin'... _bashfulness_. On both parts. I got smilies and kisses in a text from Brooker and that's it, nothin' else. All's good but I can't say why yet, gotta badger Louie for the basic details when he wakes up,” Mickey said, smiling to himself. Never would he have thought he'd be a gossip but like he gave a shit? Louie and Jake patching things up had been a trying but good distraction from his own semi-loneliness; Ian had called, or he had called Ian, every few days if Ian could get chance early enough in the day and the last time they'd spoken had been a brief morning conversation as Mickey had been driving to pick Louie up to drag him to Detroit. Louie had thought they were going to Canada to do some pre-NHL things, so he'd packed, and had yelled a lot, for over an hour, once Mickey had told him the truth. All in all though, Louie had conceded that yes, it was needed and hyped himself up for the rest of the journey. Now everything seemed to be on the mend.

“ _You're a good friend to them, Moo,”_ Ian said with all the softness he could muster, rustling around on the other end. _“So, I've finished my lunch and I'm being waved at by Lana. She looks miffed but then I wouldn't expect any less 'cause she's been in with officials while I've been outside. Gotta go Mick.”_

With a lick of his lips and a sigh that deflated his posture to nearly half of what it should be when driving, Mickey nodded to the phone, “A'ight. I'll let you know when I get back so you know I'm OK or whatever.”

“ _Please! Speak soon, all right? So you can fill me in on the Fael fiasco. Won't be long 'til I can come see you for real, huh? Another week. Any longer and I'm gonna start crackin' skulls.”_ Ian sounded tired and Mickey could see him half bent over his lunch bag, rubbing his forehead like it might stave the growing migraine.

“Yeah, OK, tough guy,” Mickey snorted and muttered _bye_ when Ian fucking _ciao'ed_ him over-cheerfully, a loud beep sounding as the line cut off. It made Louie stir a little and grumble something in his coma but all the sound served up for Mickey was another thick, body sagging sigh that did nothing to soften the harsh reality of Olympic induced fame. If not for the few pictures he had on his phone and the random phone calls to hear that heavy tone of voice, Mickey knew he'd be struggling to really remember Ian Gallagher in all his fire-haired, smiling, tall-as-a-scraper glory.

A half hour passed to the sound of the road under the wheels of the car and Louie's broken breaths and snores. Mickey glanced across and licked his lip while his brow rose; Louie's hand was in his pants, not moving at all, but it was there, a sleep habit the blond had always had and much as it was some kind of comfort thing – I just gotta make sure it's there, Mick! - it still gave Mickey a disturbing twist in his gut. He looked back out at the road and grinned, spying one of the greatest wake-up calls he could have asked for.

“Lou?” Mickey asked, lower than would be enough to fully wake his friend. He repeated Louie's name every ten seconds, each one slightly louder and a bit more agitated until he was right behind the 'alarm clock'. Trying not to laugh, Mickey forced himself to sound absolutely terrified as he yelled, “Oh _fuck_ , Louie! _Louie_!”

Louie jumped awake with a snort akin to a sow and shuffled around erratically as Mickey started yelling swears and noise, pushing right back into his seat for effect. Louie frowned and looked at what Mickey was staring at with utter terror and promptly started back-peddling, yelling and clawing at his seat, the window, the dash, anything he could reach.

“Mickey!”

“ _Louie_!”

“ _Mickey_!”

Mickey swerved the car a little and pulled into the next lane having looked to make sure it was clear while Louie very nearly passed out; Mickey shut up and grinned as he sailed passed the truck towing a van and waited for Louie's violent cursing to come.

In his seat, Louie had gone stiff and Mickey could see him turning oh-so slowly to stare at the side of his friend's head with what would definitely be a stare of complete hatred. Mickey glanced as he pulled back into the lane and saw Louie's sleepy, dead-pan, evil face. “You're a fuckin' asshole, Mick, a _fuckin' asshole_ , you know that?” Louie said lowly, his voice so pissed and betrayed that Mickey cackled and had to shift a bit so he didn't slide into the foot well laughing.

“Shouldn't drool down my damn window then should you, you dipshit,” Mickey managed, wiping one eye while gripping the steering wheel with the other.

“I thought we were about to _fuckin' die_!” Louie was scowling so deeply that he looked like his face was melting. “It ain't your car.”

“S'my fuckin' car, man,” Mickey grumbled, spying a truck stop or something similar in the distance.

“Thought it was your dads?” Louie's face was open and curious now and red-creased with sleep and pressure marks from the window and door. Mickey shook his head, pursing his mouth a bit with exasperation.

“Told you that so you'd respect the thing a bit better than you would knowin' it's mine. It's brand new and now? _Now_ it's got your fuckin' drool all over it,” Mickey started grinning again as Louie beamed at him like dribbling was some kind of accomplishment now the car was actually Mickey's and not Richard's. “Want some food?”

“Magical words,” Louie sighed, moving around too much in the space he had as he tried to get comfortable, plugging his phone into the stereo system with the AUX he somehow found in all the gadgety pockets. “Music time, Moo-”

“You fuckin' don't do this in my car, bitch, you don't,” Mickey warned with a laugh, knowing exactly what that meant. Louie simply wagged a finger as if to say 'ain't listening. Embrace this' as Baby Got Back belted out and Louie began his mimicking. Mickey took a deep breath and itched his jaw. How much longer until he could kick this idiot out of his car? He drowned out what he could by paying attention to the road and pulling off to get sustenance, maybe a fat doughnut to gag Louie with.

“Mickey got back!”

“Shut up, please God.”

“My anaconda don't want none-”

Mickey groaned out, “Should have left you in Detroit!”

“Dial 1-900-Milkovich-”

“OK, get the fuck outta the car, now...get!” Mickey rushed, un-clipping Louie's belt to shove him at the door.

 

Getting seated with coffee and stuffed-to-rafters sandwiches was easy enough, but getting Louie to stop fidgeting like he was sitting on glass was another thing. Mickey was sure he'd hadn't ever sighed as much in his entire life as he had done in the last five minutes. Glancing over his sandwich to see if any of the few patrons were getting as irritated by Louie's shifting and whining as Mickey felt, Mickey nailed his friend with a hot stare that said _sit the fuck still_ so Mickey didn't need to bark it for the tenth time. Louie shrugged apologetically and took a huge bite of his lunch, chewing while looking out of the window over fields and road, still for now.

“God _damn_ it,” Mickey bemoaned as Louie started moving again. Louie stopped chewing his new mouthful and gave Mickey a quizzical frown to which Mickey put his food down and pinched his nose. “You need some fuckin' diaper cream?” he asked, hands twitching fingers all over the place as Louie's frown went lopsided and one eye narrowed. “Woulda thought Brooker took better care of you considerin' you bein' so inexperienced with takin' it up the a-”

“Hey, fuck, whoa!” Louie choked as he swallowed, eyes watering as he gasped out, “That didn't- fuck, _Christ_. That didn't happen.”

“Then why you movin' like you've got gravel burn on your ass?” Mickey wondered as Louie gulped down water, picking his sandwich up slowly and knowing that if Louie started shifting again, he'd throw the thing at him.

“Your stupid car is why! Look, believe me or not here, what you think happened, didn't. Things were going that way but it just- just wasn't right to rush into that. See, I thought the car was your pop's so I didn't move the seat back or anything and I was curled up in that tiny as hell spot for a few hours and my damn ass and thighs are still waking up. They're full of pins and fuckin' needles,” Louie bitched, the steady, shared look he held with Mickey indicating that he really wasn't lying.

Mickey nodded a little. “Should have said somethin'. We could've walked around outside a bit,” Mickey shook his head at Louie's shrug and ate the rest of his sandwich, Louie aware of himself enough now that he didn't move all that much.

When he was done eating, Louie rolled his neck and leaned back against the booth, lazily watching Mickey drop his crusts on the plate. “Excited to see Ian?” Louie asked when Mickey was about to take a gulp of coffee.

Shaking his head a bit, Mickey looked into his mug, “Was. He's been delayed a bit longer.”

“Ah shit, bro,” Louie's tone was gentle and apologetic, as if him apologising would make it any better. The gesture was gratefully received though, Mickey kicking Louie's foot a little under the table, settling in comfortable silence twinned with disappointed sadness. “Hey,” Louie piped up after a few minutes, his shy smile plenty to catch Mickey's attention, “Worked out the tension with Jake and uh, working on...now? Us? Don't fuckin' know really, but we've got passed what I did and he's willing to work with me as long as I'm honest about what I'm feeling, thinking, that kind of thing, you know?”

Mickey felt a smile work its way across his face slowly at hearing that. Worked out the tension was an understatement from what Mickey had heard through the walls and across tables; Jake had given Louie serious hell for his behaviour and though Louie had argued back for a while, eventually, he'd opened his eyes and taken notice. He nudged Louie's foot again. “You OK with that?”

“I'm _really_ OK with that,” Louie laughed out, “Said I should have spoken to him about my confusion and conflicting thoughts or whatever, or spoken to you. Don't know why I didn't- maybe fear of being rejected or havin' ya'll run off on me which, yes, I know wouldn't happen, but it felt like that. Maybe it was all too new and I was so used to being me that this new element fucked with me and I _let_ it. It was an idiot move and I hurt him, me and you, well, messed you around more... I won't do it again, hopefully. He's willing to give this, whatever we got going on, another go as long as I give him a chance to help me understand and accept things for what they are. He's pretty decent.”

Mickey sipped the last of his coffee and gave Louie a smug look; open mouthed, teeth licking, folded arms, the lot. “I did tell you he was, man,” he said, “If that- if _Jake_ is what you want, then I'm happy for you... You come talk to me if you can't talk to him, 'K? I don't want you hurtin' 'cause you've hurt him again, I don't want him hurt or both of you miserable or anythin' 'cause you've got stuff on your mind that you can't work out on your own, right? You told me years ago that it makes you no less of a person if you ask for help from those who love you, so practise your preachin', hm?”

Louie smiled softly and kicked Mickey's foot. “In all things but DNA... love you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey scoffed, digging out his wallet. “Just want you happy... and now, needle free before you go gettin' back in my car. Out, c'mon, I need a nicotine hit and you need to walk yourself around. I am _not_ havin' your fidgetin' ass for another few hours. Plenty of places to dump a body out here-”

“You are such an asshole!” Louie squawked as they left the stop to go out into the sunshine, though it was chillier than a walk-in fridge in the bright light. Mickey lit up and leaned against his car while Louie did laps around five 18-wheelers, getting stopped on his fourth round by a trucker whose cab was filled with Blackhawks memorabilia. The guy didn't want any pictures, but simply gushed about wins and watching the Games on the TV and in-game manoeuvres until his gushing slowed and he apologised for keeping them.

“No problem, man, seriously,” Mickey said, holding up his almost done cigarette for emphasis. The guy nodded and beamed.

“Come say hi after the next game we're in, yeah? Your excitement is contagious, dude, I gotta get me more of it!” Louie laughed and Mickey nodded in agreement. The trucker went a bit red faced and shyly said he would before jogging inside the stop. “I like fans like that.”

“Yeah, we all do, but you just like havin' fans in general,” Mickey snorted, striding over to his car before Louie could swat at him. “C'mon!”

 

The rest of the ride consisted of Louie screaming along to noughtie's club music, even managing to have Mickey yelling along to Cascada, but he ran out of steam as they entered the hectic streets of Chicago, the route taking Louie home first.

“Sure you don't wanna come up for a drink or some seriously out of control excitement a la Thor?” Louie asked as Mickey pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.

“Not today, man, nothin' personal or anythin',” Mickey said with a tight smile. His friend gave him a gentle smile back and twisted in the seat to face him. “What?”

“Thanks for forcing my hand, Mick. Needed to be done and I was too chicken shit to do it myself.”

Louie's shy words had Mickey reaching out to cup his jaw, “It was nothin', Lou-”

“Wasn't 'nothing', Moo. You drove me to Detroit, then put up with arguments and awkward shit and you did it all because you care so fuckin' much, man. You were pretty much by yourself the whole time, even when you weren't, and I … I just. You're so damn kind, Mickey ,and I love you so much, I really do,” Louie said fiercely and breeched the distance to hug Mickey as tight as the awkward lean would let him, planting a kiss to Mickey's forehead before pressing them together there.

“Just wanted _you_ back, that's all. All the in-between bits were nothin' if I got that,” Mickey smiled and pushed Louie back before he could start ragging him about with more kisses and stupid smiles. “Get out of my car and go get attacked by your crazy dog so I can go home and shower.”

“The crazy dog you bought me, you mean.”

Mickey waved Louie off as he got out of the car and went to rummage in the boot for his bag. He came back to the driver window and yanked Mickey through it to kiss him on the cheek. “Yeah, get off me, c'mon, control yourself.”

“But you're so fuckin' pretty, Mickey! And your car is sexy as fuck too!” Louie chirped as he backed away, Mickey starting the engine.

“You think that when you thought it was my dad's?”

“Well, yeah, it's a fuckin' _Mustang_ , Mick... See you soon, yeah?”

“'Course you will, _bro_ ,” Mickey called, grinning as he pulled off to Louie's elated laugh of _fucking bro_. With traffic, it took Mickey another forty five minutes to get home- his dad's house in the upper side, in the area of Boys Town, of all damn places, close to Belmont Harbour. I wasn't like the Boys Town everyone knew, far less clubby and more suburban with the tall houses and iron fenced frontages. Everything associated with the area, the things anyone thought of when some said Boys Town, was a good distance from the house. Mickey had lived there for three years before he'd realised what the area was called, so different it was. He pulled into West Hawthorne Place and hoped there was a spot to park near the house and thanked his stars when he saw an empty slot right out front. Living at home again was tight now he was a lot older and had moved out once, but still, it was home and it was comforting and safe while he hunted for his own place again. It wasn't something he was in a rush to do and wanted to take his time looking; Luke had taken his apartment from him before, something he'd worked on doing up and making his own so it wasn't a thing he was going to run at until he was ready to do it again. Bad memories would eventually be erased and be ready to be replaced with better, but for now, Mickey was good with staying home and neither of his parents minded in the least.

“I told you to call me when you left Detroit!” Mickey was greeted with the bark from Dean in the kitchen when he came through the door. “I've been worrying my heart to death here!”

“Whoa, hey, I could've been pop's comin' in for all you knew!” Mickey snapped back, grinning while hanging up his jacket and taking off his shoes.

“Yeah, _no_. I'm in here!” Richard chuckled from where his study was at the back of the house, behind the kitchen. Mickey shook his head and padded into the large kitchen, smirk dropping and hands up immediately when Dean rounded the counters to come at him with a raging face.

“I thought all sorts! Death, injury, muggings, _shootings_... Mikhaylo!”

“I'm sorry, I should have-” Mickey was cut off by a tight hug, his hands falling to Dean's back, “Called.”

“Yeah,” Richard's voice wafted through, drawn out and gentle in agreement, shortly before he appeared in the doorway leading from the kitchen to a short hall into his study, leaning on the frame in all his dark suited presence, a smile on his face, arms folded like he wanted to be childish and smug for no reason. “Glad you're not dead,” he said honestly, but gave Mickey finger guns and winked.

“What the fuck, Dick?” Dean snapped in shock, letting go of his son in favour of giving his husband a nasty look while Mickey merely saluted his pops and sniggered his way across the room to the fridge for a cold pepsi. How easily his dad's nickname could be used as a call and an insult. Before he forgot to, Mickey fired off a quick _I'm back safe_ text to Ian, pocketed his phone and seriously considered a bath over a shower.

Mickey was watching something in the living room when Dean slid in quietly and sat on the massive foot rest right in front of Mickey, between him and the TV. “What?” Mickey sighed, turning the TV off because why bother even trying to focus on what he'd been getting into.

“Where's the boy?”

Mickey frowned and shook his face because what? “Excuse me? What d'you mean...Oh. He's uh, been delayed a few more days, s'all. _Don't_ give me that look, I'm fine, see?” Mickey gestured to his sprawled self on the sofa but Dean popped an eyebrow and looked less than convinced. “Dad, I've been used to this limbo for weeks. First, yeah, OK, it was rough, but I'm so used to it being phone calls and texts that him being absent a little while longer really isn't settin' anythin' off, I swear.”

Dean still didn't look like he really believed Mickey but he caved with a few bobs of his head and licked his lip. “You should go out with Louie.”

Mickey gave his dad a long look. “I've just spent the best part of a week with him, two _long_ car rides... I only dropped him home a few hours ago! I don't need to go out, dad. Not tonight.”

“OK, but there's a friendly hockey game going on down at the open rink... it's gonna be gone tomorrow because the weather's turning,” Dean said in a manner only a coercing parent could, all lilting tones and an air of _I'm not really trying to trick you but I really am._ Mickey's hard look deflated the egging tone and Dean sagged. “Bub, you look bored as fuck and an hour or two doing what you do best could lift you a bit, get you through the next few days.”

Mickey knew his dad meant well but he also knew what he was doing. “You want me out of the house?”

“It's not like that-”

“Seriously, Jesus,” Mickey sighed, his own teasing lilt in play as he got up and really played at being 'pushed out', “If you wanted to fuck, you only gotta say you know? Don't need to do all this idea planting bullshit with me.”

“I don't- _Mickey_!” Dean looked affronted when Mickey turned to look at him from the doorway. “I am not throwing you out to... I'm _not_.”

Mickey folded his arms and grinned at Dean's flustered look. “Liar.”

“Engaged in such things before you got home, kid, so he's telling you the truth,” Richard said from behind Mickey, making him jump a bit and crease his face as the words sank in. “Look, you know how Louie's moping was really starting to upset you and worry you? You saw him dropping so you got him out and helped fix things. We're doing the same here. You might say you're OK, but you aren't. Besides, we're going to this friendly game ourselves and thought it'd be fun if you guys went and hashed it out, had a bit of fun now you've got things sorted... they are sorted, aren't they? God, please tell me they are because I can't deal with Louie moping around, eating my fucking ice-cream tubs any more than you could.”

Mickey put his hand up and quickly put an end to Richard's near childish frustration. “Ye-yeah, Christ. They're good as far as Louie says and I believe him 'cause his whole fuckin' aura has changed. You really think I'm moping?”

Dean gave a lopsided smile and shrugged. “Yep. Just want you to have a bit of fun, take your mind into something else you love.” Mickey declined to deny what his dad meant and conceded after a few moments of looking between the softly encouraging faces of his dads. Tired as he was, he _was_ bored and endlessly trying to remember the last time he'd seen Ian and touched him was starting make his bones ache with the need to see his smiling face, and soon. Hockey was always a good distraction and something that Mickey's blood ran for and so, forgave his dad's over-the-top foam hands and ridiculous jersey's, and drove them to the rink half hour later with his stick, skates and a basic training kit in a bag.

 

“Thought...shit, hell on fire, _ah_!” Louie wheezed after twenty minutes of play, circling Mickey even as he bent to put his hands on his knees and gasp like a fish. “Seriously, thought this was meant to be a friendly thing?” he panted, looking out over the rink of playing guys with a genuine wave of disbelief and suspicion.

“What, you got pins and needles again, baby boy?” Mickey taunted, biting his tongue cheekily as Louie scowled at him. “It _is_ a friendly. I ain't been hit or nothin' yet.”

“Yeah, 'cause all the fuckers are coming after me!” Louie hissed, glaring and shading his eyes when the flood lights came on due to twilight setting in. It's was all kinds of beautiful across the lake with the sky pinking through blues and orange. A whistle blew and Mickey shoved his mouth-guard back in and shot out to play with Louie groaning and cursing behind him; his noises lasted seconds before he was swearing loud for having been tackled again. Mickey could only wonder at how many parents were going to chew his ass after the game about his louder-than-necessary language. No doubt Louie would charm them quiet, he always managed to, if he got out of this alive. Mickey very nearly slid into the barrier wall with how much of his attention got stolen by Louie in a ball, cursing and whining.

“You're shamin' the Hawk name, man!” Mickey laughed out and got a thick, gloved middle finger for it. Though it was a friendly, and far more so than the one they'd had with Britain in South Korea, Mickey did get checked a few times and lost his footing on the unkempt ice on a fast, swoop of a bend, very nearly upending himself over the barrier wall and into where the coolers and substitute kit was. He did, however, lose his stick over it and lost sight of it when it collided with the stand holding the rest, sending them scattering off the gangway and down the grass beneath. “Fuckin' great,” he groaned, trying to spy the tiny smiley face but getting no luck in the darkened space. The whistle blew and Mickey was grateful, though he wanted to play some more; the rink was to be swept and opened for the public to throw themselves all over and Mickey could take his now freed up time to scrounge through about forty hockey sticks for his own.

“Mick! Mick, come get a drink?” Louie shouted over the din of people and skates, standing at the side with Dean and Richard leaning on the wall next to him holding bottles of bud and steaming hot boxes of something.

“Thanks,” Mickey grumbled as he took a bottle from Richard and nodded down at the box in his hand to distract from freaking out over losing one of his sticks; he had four, he could lose one but not that one, and not without a fucking fight. “S'that? Smells good.”

“Freshly fried doughnuts with sugar. Dean has chilli cheese fries but you know he won't be sharing those.”

Mickey was barely listening as he took a hot doughnut and started looking over to where he'd lost his third arm. “Sup with over there, man? You wanna take out the barrier for blocking your fall?” Louie laughed.

“Lost my fuckin' stick over it.”

“Oohh not the Olympic smiley one?!”

“Yahuh,” Mickey licked his mouth of sugar and handed the half munched treat and his bottle back to Richard without his pop's being ready, hardly able to take the arm-full with his own full hands. “Not being rude but I really am- gonna go get it before someone else does. Two minutes.”

“Take your time!” Louie called after him which got Mickey frowning a little; he'd find his stick in point three seconds flat and then he'd be chugging his Bud and scarfing doughnuts like a ravenous child on the little ramp, hopefully watching people dorking around so much on skates that a fair few hit the ice with their asses. To say that walking on grass of out deep winter was difficult and near ankle-breaking in his boots would be the understatement of the year so far. Mickey was struggling to even get to the pile of sticks and those scattered everywhere let alone begin his search.

“Son of a bitch, I'm gonna break somethin'...” in the end, Mickey got on his knees and started collecting the sticks, eyeing each one that looked like his as he went along the ground.

“Need some help?” someone offered close by, thick-voiced and sounding grumpy.

“Nah, I'm cool, man.”

There was a hum and Mickey sniffed, his nose chilling in the cooling air, and cursed out the amount on the ground. So much for fun.

“This one's yours.” Approaching feet had Mickey sighing because he really didn't need some idiot thinking they knew what fucking stick he was looking for, interrupting what he was very nearly done doing. The end of a stick was put in his line of sight and he glanced at it half-assed, then stared at the golden smiley peeking at him.

“How'd you know it was mine?” Mickey wondered as he got up, thinking himself a dumbass straight away because it was most likely some die hard fan who took notice of the make-up of the tools their team played with. He brushed off his knees and was ready to greet this guy with a cheery disposition, maybe offer him a beer for being kind enough to come help in the first place, but the whole thought died immediately when his brain screamed and his heart dropped to his feet in shock at who he was looking at holding the other end of his stick with a smile.

“Louie and his gold smilies... got one on my skates.”

Mickey's body was stuck, rooted, never to be moved from this moment of unreal brilliance. “Holy fuck... ho- fuck, Ian,” he breathed, flushing warm when the smile on Ian's face grew into teeth and rosy cheeks and shining eyes. Greens eyes quickly looked around and up over the lip of the gangway to see if anyone was actually paying attention, Mickey staring at Ian with his mouth gradually dropping open, before he gave a hard tug on the stick and cradled Mickey's head in one big hand, the other fisting in the material at Mickey's hip. The kiss was fiercely lit with all of the longing that last month had been alive with, need and want and passion and emotion coming out bright and it was as ever consuming as it had begun the first time they'd kissed. Mickey was burning with electric currents all through his system with every slide of lips, every rushed breath through Ian's nose, with every touch of each fingertip in his hair, like lightning forking across the sky, he felt Ian everywhere.

“I've missed you,” Ian managed to get in as he changed angle, Mickey humming at the statement while he clung to Ian's coat and let the guy step as close as possible, his feet either side of Mickey's blades. Shit as the grass was and despite having sunk into it, Mickey was very close in height to his skater, so much so that their noses bumped often and Mickey gave up one hand to cup it around the column of Ian's neck. The weight of just how much he'd missed this guy hit Mickey hard, a horse kick in the chest hard, and he felt so elated and high and _alive_ that his blood pressure was racing into faint-worthy territory.

“Thought-” Mickey broke away to get some air and calm himself down a bit, Ian panting and grinning in his hold very nearly destroying that and rendering him completely breathless. “How are you here?”

“I lied and I'm sorry. Kinda wanted to do this whole surprise thing, be all romantic and stuff...I left LA yesterday, made sure I got ahead of my schedule, or rather, Lana did.”

Mickey raised his brow and licked his lip, “Surprised the shit outta me, man. Sappy as hell but Christ, Ian... you're _here_.”

Ian beamed and ran his hand down the side of Mickey's face gently, thoughtful and serene, “I realised that I couldn't be too sappy though, not once I'd seen you. All I wanted was to kiss you and touch you, fuck flowers and sweeping you off your feet in front of your parents and Louie... you losing the stick was very fortuitous indeed, Moo.”

Even though Mickey now knew his parents had something to do with this, he wasn't even a tiny bit annoyed with that, not now he was holding Ian as tight as Ian was holding him, hugging in the dark, surrounded by scattered sticks and battered grass and the sound of laughter and chatter with slicing blades and gentle music. Pulling off his gloves so he could feel Ian's hair under his fingers, Mickey inhaled the warm smell of his skin where he pressed his nose against Ian's neck, his body trying to press impossibly close when Ian overlapped his arms around the base of Mickey's back and pulled him a little.

“Mick?” Ian said after a long silence of breathing together and relishing in this being very real, each man solid for the other rather than some crackly voice or dodgy skype connection.

Mickey pulled back as Ian loosened his arms and gave a little shake of his head with a _hmm_ to say 'yeah' without breaking the moment with his shattered voice. Ian simply smiled and kissed him alight with gentle swoops of his lips and chasing licks of his tongue and sure touches to his face and neck with long, sure fingers with pads that held memory, Mickey powerless to stop himself from doing the same back, Ian all but melting against him with a groan so deep it shouldn't have been heard.

Mickey's phone buzzing deep within his zipped up pockets had them break apart slowly, hardly wanting to at all. Even opening the text, Mickey kept one hand gently pressed to Ian's jaw, thumbing the soft skin near his beautifully gentle doe-eye.

 

**From: Dad**

_Come get your things xxx_  
  


In other words – bring me the boy. Mickey snorted and tipped his head in the direction of the gangway. “Someone wants me to share for a minute. You comin' with me this way? I gotta use the gangway, can't walk on these on the grass and gravel, gonna break my ankles.”

Ian nodded and picked up Mickey's stick. “Could carry you?”

“Not today, solider,” Mickey chuckled, holding onto Ian's hand as he hobbled, not letting go until they were in full view of the skating public. Ian was no further than a step behind Mickey's clanking boots, head ducked a little, maybe trying to hide in his coat collar or maybe because he was feeling shy all of a sudden, about to be accosted by Mickey's dads and Louie. Mickey couldn't help but smile stupidly at his feet as he approached the back of Dean bouncing on his feet like he was searching through everyone to get a peek of his son.

“Thank you,” Mickey said into Dean's ear as he hugged him from behind. Dean relaxed straight away and gripped Mickey's hand tightly.

“You're welcome, Moo,” he said with a smile lacing his voice, turning as Mickey let go after one hard squeeze. “Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” Dean beamed at Ian, hooking his hand with Ian's as he put it out with a laugh, hugging quickly.

“Hello, Sir.”

“Oh don't with that, good grief!”

“Fire cracker!” Louie's yell was loud and clear from behind and Ian went rigid in preparation for the back tackle that came not a second after, Louie nearly taking him clean out. “Was he where I said?”

“Yeah, Lou-”

Mickey gawked a bit and tried to give a very betrayed look but Louie's wiggly brows and grin put an end to that. “You knew he was here?”

“He was in my apartment. Got there about an hour before we did!” Louie cheered. “I knew you were gonna refuse a drink so... I know you better than anyone, bro,” Louie winked. “I'm so fuckin' happy to see that smile on your face, man, so I can't feel bad for hiding him from you for that little bit longer.”

Mickey couldn't say anything to Louie's smile and hugged him tight when he came close for it, kissed the blond all over his sunny face for being a secretive little fuck. Ian was released from Richard's hold with a laugh at something he'd said as Mickey felt his bag bump against his leg.

“So, you'll want your shoes, right? We've got our things. Already knew about it before we left the house so, we're all set to go home with Louie and Dickie pulled a fast one so we're in the city tonight. Posh hotel! So,” Dean smiled, kissing Mickey's cheek before hushing in his ear, “You get a night with him, alone, and I get to-”

“Please don't finish that!"

“- _eat nice food_ , in bed, and have a night of peace myself, knowing you're happier than you've been since you came out of the airport.”

Ian was red faced and flustered once he;d been given goodbye squeezes, thanks and kisses, the latter from only Louie, though Dean very nearly planted one on him. Mickey watched on as he tied his shoes and zipped up his bag.

“Just gonna pop these in the car,” he said and Ian walked at his side with a smile the entire way to it, nudging their shoulders with sky looks and chuckles.

“This one?” Ian said as Mickey popped the boot of his dark blue Mustang, passing over the stick absently. 

“Yeah. Nice, right?”

“Fucking gorgeous, Mickey,” Ian marveled, his eyes bright and praising as he looked over the motor. Mickey leaned against it once he'd shut the boot down and smiled shyly when Ian's eyes landed on him. “Truly beautiful,” Ian said softly, not trying to hide the fact that he wasn't talking about the car any more, just what he could see in front of him. Ian was looking at Mickey like nothing else existed in the quite of the car park, or in the world for that matter and it was soul-stunning.

“Wanna go?” Mickey asked quietly when Ian's smile threatened to stick permanently. Total dork.

“Oh, can we go look at the lake for a minute? I haven't seen it in _ages_ , and I'm pretty sure that last time I did, it was stormy and rough, not clam and clear like now. D'you mind if we do that?”

Mickey smiled and pushed off his car, “'Course not.”

Ian was stealthy, but Mickey had forgotten just how much of a creature of stealth he was, and was a little shocked when Ian took a hold of his hand, walking so close to Mickey's side that if anyone were to look, they'd not see the hold Mickey was revelling in; looking about out of habit, Mickey saw nobody where they had walked to, nothing and nobody, all too caught up in the rink and the better spots further down or closer to the harbour further up. Ian gave Mickey a knowing smile of _I don't mind, I checked too._

They stood and leaned against the railings, quietly watching the blinking of the buoys and passing boats far out on the inky water, touching arms but saying nothing. Mickey took to watching Ian looking out over the lake like he'd never seen it before, his face open with fascinated awe, mouth parted like he wanted to keep saying 'wow' because it was written all over him. His clear wonder had Mickey viewing him, and the lake, like he'd been gifted with the most heavenly vision to come from the universe.

“Mickey?” Ian called gently after a long time, his soft voice breaking through the sound of the lake water tapping against the shoreline and the distant sounds of the ice rink. Mickey was looking out at the reflection of the moon on the surface, remembering a story Richard had read him about a mouse, or something, believing the moon had fallen from the sky and was drowning in the pond. “I love you, Mick.”

There was no second guessing exactly what he'd just heard because Ian had said it honestly, clear and genuine even though his voice was soft and full of the meaning. Mickey's body flashed hot; through every vein he had ran liquid fire, ice skates and green eyes and smiles that he would never tire of being gifted with and safety and honest trust and loyalty.

“You love me?” Mickey could hardly get the words out of his drying throat as he turned his head and spied Ian smiling out at the lake, warm and dream-like.

“Like the lake loves the moon,” Ian breathed with a sharp nod, pushing away from railing to turn Mickey and press him back against it with gentle moves and sighs so sweet. “Because of the moon, the water moves-”

“The sea does that-”

Ian laughed and pressed a finger over Mickey's lips. “Can you not smart-ass me right now? _The water moves_ , and without it, they wouldn't. Every time the lake can't see it, the vision of the moon is all it has to hold on to, a memory but it knows it's there, and when it can, it has the moon within it's hold, like tonight. And I'm sure it doesn't ever want to let go, like I don't.”

“You think the moon loves the lake?” Mickey asked quietly, stunned by Ian and his gentleness and heart-aching honesty Mickey hadn't heard for so long. Ian hummed like he thought so, tracing his hands up Mickey's arms to his jaw.

“I'd like to think so, because it goes into the lake's embrace whenever it can, and though it may have hidden behind clouds for a while, it never went away truly,” Ian said matter of factly, a wink or two with a smart ass smile to boot. “The moon is quiet and may not speak, but it looks at the water with more than words while the lake sings away, happy with everything it-”

Mickey shut him up with a deep kiss of his own, his heart banging with the words and references and how Ian still knew how he worked. But Ian, even through phone calls and video chats, had always been wide-eyed and watched or listened to Mickey like he was everything. “If you'll keep me, I'll keep you,” Mickey said slowly as he nosed Ian's jaw and felt a sense of consuming want, to have every part of the guy, as Ian closed his eyes and felt the touch as though for the first time. “I love you.”

Ian had never smiled so satisfactorily, not even a medal had brought out such a stunning sight, and even with his eyes closed, Mickey could see his fucking soul burning through. Shaking with his admittance, and knowing how real it all was, Mickey pushed his face into Ian's collar and felt the steady heart beat from his throat tapping under the skin. And Mickey's, despite feeling like he was spiralling, matched its song as the man who owned it dropped his nose into Mickey's hair and breathed in, circling Mickey tight within his arms. The contented, grounding feeling Mickey was awash with was all very new, and though it was, it somehow felt like it wasn't, like it'd always been in him but only now, because of this fire-haired anchor he honestly loved, only now was it coming alive.

Mickey could feel the smile against his head and barked a wet laugh when Ian said, “Fucking oranges,” through a kiss to the dark softness. Mickey kind of really loved oranges.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ADORE YOU ALL AND THANK YOU!!!!!
> 
> *throws confetti and sobs on the floor*
> 
> merry fucking christmas :D come say [Hi](http://youknowyoutried.tumblr.com/)  
> The [playlist](http://youknowyoutried.tumblr.com/post/154136550210/on-ice-by-dana-elfydwarf-here-it-is-hope)  
> I started in february for this and only stopped adding to it yesterday lol it's over 100 songs that inspired bits, were in the fic, went with a scene or fit in somewhere or somehow. Hope you enjoy it and that it helps you visualise as you re-read (if you do) or think about the 'verse :} I'd love to know if you find any in there that strike a chord in you because I can tell you right now, so many did with me, but some are just so perfect for what I saw in my head that when I hear them, I see it as clear as I did when writing <3


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